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THE 



STRATFORD GALLERY; 



SHAKSPEAKE SISTERHOOD 



COMPRISING FORTY-FIVE IDEAL PORTRAITS 



DESCKIBED BT 

HENRIETTA LEE PALMER. 



Jttustratfd 

WITH FINE ENGRAVINGS ON STEEL, FROM DESIGNS BT EMINENT HANDS. 



"Here comes the Lady!" 

Romeo and Juliet. 

'I have no other reason but a woman's reason: 
I think her so because I think her so." 

Two Gentlemen of Vebona. 



NEW YORK: 
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY. 

M.DCCO.LIX. 



^: 



(K 



*\ 



^ 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1858, by 

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, 

In the Clerk's office of the District Court of the United States, for the Southe 
District of New York. 



DEDICATION. 



J. W. P. 

THE MOST EXACTING AND THE MOST ENCOURAGING: 
"something between a hinderanoe and a help." 



PREFACE. 



In offering the first fruits of her labor of love to the 
generous world of Shakspeare-lovers, the writer distinctly 
disclaims the intention of presumptuously identifying her- 
self, in her unpretending task, with those whose names 
are honorably associated with the Master-Poet's, and 
who are known by their works, as his wise and faithful 
scholars and expounders. Yet does she confidently claim 
the right to speak of these, his Sisterhood, as one woman 
may justly speak of another — -judging them, not with 
sophisticated research nor oracular criticism, but simply, 
naturally, sympathetically, as she may regard her fellow- 
women whom she meets from day to day. 

New York, November 1, 1858. 



THE PORTRAITS. 



LADY MACBETH, . . a. e. chalon, r. a. 

JULIET, . • • E - T - paeeis, . 

OPHELIA, . -J- bostock, 

IMOGEN, . . • E. T. PARRIS, . 

MIRANDA, . . . k. meadows, . 

DESDEMONA, . . J. hatter, . 
ROSALIND, ... J. HATTER, 
CELIA, .... J- bostock, . 

BEATRICE, . . -J. hatter, . . 

HERO, . . . • J- J- JENKINS, . 

JULIA, . . • . J. J. JENKINS, . 

SYLVIA, . . . . K. MEADOWS, . 

VIOLA, . . . . K. MEADOWS, 

OLIVIA, K. MEADOWS, . 

MART A, . . . . K. MEADOWS, 

PORTIA, . . . J. J. JENKINS, . 

JESSICA, . . . • K. MEADOWS, . 

PERDLTA, . . . c r. leslie, r. a. 

MISTRESS FORD, . . k. meadows, . 

MISTRESS PAGE, . . k. meadows, . 



ENGRAVED BY 


PAGE 


C. COOK, 


11 


W. J. EDWARDS, 


. 17 


W. J. EDWARDS, . 


29 


C. COOK, 


. 37 


W. H. MOTE, 


47 


H. ROBINSON, . 


. 53 


H. ROBINSON, 


61 


W. H. MOTE, . 


. 69 


G. STODART, 


73 


W. J. EDWARDS, 


. 81 


B. ETXES, 


87 


W. H. MOTE, . 


. 97 


B. ETTLES, . 


103 


B. ETXES, 


. 109 


W. J. EDWARDS, . 


113 


C. COOK. . 


. 117 


W. H. MOTE, 


125 


W. H. MOTE, . 


. 129 


W. J. EDWARDS, . 


142 


W. J. EDWARDS 


. 147 



THE PORTRAITS. 





DESIGNED BI 


ENGRAVED BY 


PAGE 


ANNE PAGE, . 


K. MEADOWS, . 


E. EADCLTFFE, 


. 151 


ISABELLA, . 


K. MEADOWS, 


. B. EYLES, . 


155 


CLEOPATRA, . 


K. MEADOWS, . 


W. J. EDWARDS, 


. 163 


CRESSIDA, . 


K. MEADOWS, 


. W. H. MOTE, 


m 


HELEN, . . . . 


K. FIELDS, 


G. LNGLIS, 


. 183 


CASSANDRA, 


K. MEADOWS, 


. W. H. MOTE, 


187 


THE SHREW, . 


F. P. STEPHANOFF, . 


C. COOK, 


. 191 


HELENA, .... 


J. HATTER, 


. B. ETLES, 


197 


TITANIA, 


J. J. JENKINS, . 


C. COOK, 


. 205 


CONSTANCE, . 


E. CORBOULD, 


. G. STODART, 


215 


CORDELIA, 


K. MEADOWS, . 


G. INGLIS, 


. 223 


THE ABBESS, . 


J. J. JENKINS, 


. C. COOK, 


231 


QUEEN KATHARINE, . 


J. HERBERT, . 


B. HOLL, 


. 237 


ANNE BTJLLEN, . 


J. BOSTOCK, 


. G. STODART, 


245 


PRINCESS OF FRANCE, . 


J. J. JENKINS, . 


W. H. MOTE, . 


. 251 


MARGARET OF ANJOU, 


J. HERBERT, 


. W. H. MOTE, 


257 


QUEEN MARGARET, 


J. HERBERT, . 


W. J. EDWARDS, ' 


. 261 


JOAN OF ARC, . 


E. CORBOULD, 


. G. INGLIS, . 


265 


LADY GREY, . 


F. P. STEPHANOFF, . 


C. COOK, 


. 271 


LADY ANNE, . 


C. E. LESLIE, R. A. 


. W. H. MOTE, 


277 


LADY PERCY, 


J. J. JENKINS, . 


G. STODART, . 


. 283 


PRINCESS KATHARLNE, 


J. J. JENKINS, 


. G. STODART, 


287 


PORTIA (wife of Brutus.) 


K. MEADOWS, . 


J. PUTRIM, 


. 291 


VIRGILIA, . 


K. MEADOWS, 


. W. J. EDWARDS, . 


295 


LAVTNIA, 


J. BOSTOCK, 


J. C. ARMTTAGE, 


. 301 



THE DESCRIPTIONS. 



\ 



LADY MACBETH, . . . Macbeth, 11 

JULIET, ..... Borneo and Juliet, . . . 17 

OPHELIA, Hamlet, 29 

IMOGEN, Cymbeline, . . . . 37 

-45HRANDA, . .... The Tempest, .... 47 

\DESDEMONA, .... Othello, 53 

ROSALIND, As You Like It, . . . .61 

CELIA, As You Like It, ... 69 

BEATRICE, .... Much Ado About Nothing, . . 73 

HERO, .... Much Ado About Nothing, . 81 

JULIA, Two Gentlemen of Verona, . . 87 

SILVIA, Two Gentlemen of Verona, . 97 

VIOLA, ' Twelfth Night, . . . .103 

OLP7IA, Ticelfth Night, . . . .109 

MARIA, Tioelfth Night, . . . .113 

-PORTIA, Merchant of Venice, . . . 117 

JESSICA, Merchant of Venice, . . .125 

PERDLTA, Winter's Tale, . . . .129 

HERMIONE, Winter's Tale, . . . .135 

MISTRESS FORD, . . . Merry Wives of Windsor, . 143 

MISTRESS PAGE, . . . Merry Wives of Windsor, . .147 



10 



THE DESCRIPTIONS. 







PAGB 


ANNE PAGE, . . . . 


Merry Wives of Windsor, 


. 151 


ISABELLA, .... 


. Measure for Measure, . . 


. 155 


CLEOPATRA, .... 


Antony and Cleopatra, 


163 


CRESSIDA, .... 


Troilus and Cressida, . 


. Ill 


HELEN, 


Troilus and Cressida, 


183 


CASSANDRA, 


• Troilus and Cressida, . 


. 187 


THE SHREW, . 


Taming of the Shrew, 


191 


HELENA, . 


. All's Well that Ends Well, 


. 197 


TITANIA, 


Midsummer NighPs Dream, 


205 


CONSTANCE 


. King John, 


. 215 


Cordelia . 




. 223 


the Abbess, 


Comedy of Errors, . 


231 


KATHARINE OF ARRAGON, . 


King Henry VIII., 


. 237 


ANNEBULLEN, . 


. King Henry VIII, . 


245 


PRINCESS OF FRANCE, . 




. 251 


MARGARET OF ANJOU, . 


. King Henry VI, 


257 


JOAN OF ARC, 


King Henry VI, 


. 265 


LADY GREY, 


. King Henry VI, 


. 271 


LADY ANNE, . . . . 


King Richard III, 


. 277 


LADY PERCY, 


. King Henry IV, 


283 


PRINCESS KATHARINE, 


King Henry V, . 


. 287 


PORTIA (wife of Brutus), 


. Julius Ccesar, . 


. 291 


VIRGILIA, 




. 295 


LAVINIA 


Titus Andronicus, 


301 



LADY MACBETH. 



Geaoch, Lady Macbeth, was the wife of a renowned Scottish 
general in the royal army, of near kin to Duncan, the reigning 
king. Keturning from victorious warfare against rebellious troops, 
in company with his comrade, Banquo, an officer of rank s i m il ar 
to his own, Macbeth was accosted by three witches, who prophe- 
sied that he should be king. This extraordinary good fortune — 
for witchcraft was then in high repute — he hastened to communi- 
cate to his wife, a woman of towering ambition, who imm ediately 
set about contriving the speediest plan to realize the promise of 
the weird sisters. 

Chance rendered timely aid to her unscrupulous purpose. 
King Duncan, surnamed the Meek, for his amiable virtues, desir- 
ing to signally honor his faithful servant, made a visit to Macbeth's 
castle, accompanied by his two sons and gentlemen of the court. 
After the royal guest had retired for the night, his chamberlains 
having been drugged by Lady Macbeth, her husband, confirmed 
in his half-conceived treachery by the daring woman, murdered 
the good old king in his sleep. 

The two princes fled for their lives — the one to England, the 
other to Ireland ; and Macbeth, as next of kin, was proclaimed 



12 LADY MACBETH. 

King of Scotland ; thus bringing to pass the witches' words, and 
realizing his wife's inordinate aspirations. 

And now Macbeth remembered, how it had been promised to 
Banquo that his issue should succeed to the throne ; and this 
thought so rankled in the minds of the guilty pair, that they de- 
termined to put to death Banquo and his son, to secure to their 
own posterity the honors for which they had paid so dearly. Ac- 
cordingly Banquo was murdered by hired assassins, on his return 
from a grand feast given by his friend, King Macbeth ; but his son 
Fleance escaped into a neighboring country ; and from him event- 
ually descended a long line of Scottish monarchs. 

Thus, from one desperate crime to another the wretched Mug 
was impelled, by morbid fear of conspirators against his dignity 
or his life, till the people, exasperated, took violent measures to 
free themselves from his tyranny. Lady Macbeth died, an un- 
pitied victim to "a mind diseased;" and her husband was killed 
in personal encounter with Macduff, a Scottish nobleman, whose 
wife and children had been inhumanly butchered by the usurper's 
order. Malcolm, the lawful successor of Duncan the Meek, was 
raised to the throne. 



This is one of the many plays of Shakspeare in which the 
superstitious element constitutes a distinguishing feature ; its 
supernatural effects are neither childish nor commonplace ; they 
contribute in no small degree to the depicting of a terrible retri- 
bution, and are imbued with all the weirdness of the Black Art, 
in the days when the wisest believed in, and the boldest trembled 
before, its. revelations. 

Of all the Shakespearian Sisterhood, there is perhaps least una- 



LADY MACBETH. 13 

nimity of opinion as to the character of Lady Macbeth. She 
enjoys the distinction of being a successful puzzle to critics and 
commentators, who have exhausted even their ingenuity in at- 
tempting to deduce from her attributes any satisfactory conclu- 
sions. In the wide range of opinion she exists, successively : as a 
monstrous horror, delighting, vampire-like, in blood, for its own 
sake ; a " pure demoniac," abstract incarnation of cruelty ; a vul- 
gar, vixenish fury ; and a magnificent instance of the perversion, 
by one bad passion, of the rarest natural endowments — powerful 
intellect, marvellous force, and strong affections. 

It is almost needless to say that the latter is the nearest ap- 
proach to an intelligent appreciation of Lady Macbeth. Intellect 
and force we must all concede to her ; and notwithstanding our 
first impulse to deny her any thing " pure womanly," her affections 
are as profound as may coexist with a mind exclusively masculine, 
and a heart fully possessed of a very devil of ambition. 

It has been contended, with amiable plausibility, that this am- 
bition was entertained only for her husband — that it was her com- 
plete identification of her own with his hopes and far-reaching 
aspirations which thus steeled her conscience, her woman's tender- 
ness, her very physique, to an insane indifference to crimes, how- 
ever revolting, so they but advanced his fortunes. But it is not 
easy to discover this absorbing passion for her husband in Lady 
Macbeth, or, indeed, any higher regard for him than the half-con- 
temptuous, yet tenacious, affection almost always entertained by 
" strong-minded " women for men greatly inferior to themselves in 
force of character and intellect. On the other hand, Macbeth's 
implicit confidence in his wife, his boundless admiration of her 
corn-age, even in crime, his dependence upon her in every emer- 
gency to which he feels himself unequal, are but the tribute which 
every vacillating character, uncertain of its own powers, suspicious 



14 LADY MACBETH. 

of its best efforts, pays to a forcible, self-asserting nature, capable 
of swaying it at its own grand will. 

The individualization of Lady Macbeth is almost independent 
of her social relations, of her sex even ; she is that hateful acci- 
dent, a masculine heart, soul, and brain, clothed with a female hu- 
manity. Even the few touches of pathos or tenderness, introduced 
to remind us of her sex, as it were, would be natural to any man 
not positively monstrous ; and her final remorse, madness, and 
death, we cannot regard as the repentance, or even horror, of the 
soul for its own deeds, but simply as the consequences of an organ- 
ization physically inadequate to the demands of a too vigorous 
intellect. 

In the same manner, the almost diabolic nerve displayed by 
her on the night of the Mug's murder, and subsequently, is plainly 
a mental victory over a body as frail as becomes her sex ; the mo- 
ment her vigilance is relaxed, or the immediate necessity for its 
exercise is removed, the fragile structure gives way, and drags 
down to its pitiful level all the splendors which have glorified its 
weakness. 

What we mean to say is : that a mem, having had the wicked- 
ness to plan, the courage to dare, the nerve to execute, so revolt- 
ing a crime as the murder of an anointed king, who was more- 
over an illustrious kinsman and a condescending guest, would have 
lived on to the end with as little remorse as Lady Macbeth really 
felt, and with none of the physical demonstrations which may 
easily be mistaken for it. Separate Lady Macbeth the indi- 
vidual, from Lady Macbeth the woman, and the mystery of her 
character is at once cleared — she is woman in her incarnation 
only. 

The text, oddly enough, supports our theory, in not affording 
a single hint of her person, whether tall or short, dark or fair. 



LADY MACBETH. 15 

We are told by Mrs. Jameson that Mrs. Siddons " had an idea 
that she was a small, fair, blue-eyed woman, from her Celtic 
origin ; " she adds, however, that she cannot help fancying Lady 
Macbeth dark, like Black Agnes of Douglas, which we imagine 
mast agree with the popular notion of her person. 

"We take our leave of Lady Macbeth with the following solilo- 
quies — both well known, and most characteristic. The first occurs 
on the receipt of her husband's letter, announcing the prophetic 
salutations of the three witches ; the second on hearing that the 
king will sleep that night at the Castle : 

Lady M. ***** * 

******** 

Glamis thou art, and Cawdor ; and slialt be 

"What thou art promis'd : — Tet do I fear thy nature ; 

It is too full o' the milk of human kindness, 

To catch the nearest way. Thou would'st be great, 

Art not without ambition ; but without 

The illness should attend it. What thou would'st highly, 

That would'st thou holily ; would'st not play false, 

And yet would'st wrongly win. Thou'dst have, great Glamis, 

That which cries, Thus thou must do, if thou have it ; 

And that which rather thou dost fear to do, 

Than wishest should be undone. Hie thee hither, 

That I may pour my spirits in thine ear, 

And chastise with the valor of my tongue 

All that impedes thee from the golden round 

Which fate and metaphysical aid doth seem 

To have thee crown'd withal. 

****** The raven himself is hoarse 
That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan 
Under my battlements. Come, come, you spirits 
That tend on mortal thoughts ! unsex me here, 
And fill me, from the crown to the toe, top-full 
Of direst cruelty ! make thick my blood ! 
Stop up the access and passage to remorse, 



16 LADY MACBETH. 

That no compunctious visitings of nature 
Shake my fell purpose, nor keep peace between 
The effect and it ! Come to my woman's breasts, 
And take my milk for gall, you murd'riug ministers, 
Wherever in your sightless substances 
You wait on nature's mischief! Come, thick Night, 
And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell ! 
That my keen knife see not the wound it makes, 
Nor Heaven peep through the blanket of the dark, 
To cry, Sold, hold ! 

For the somnambulic scene, that master-piece of physiological 
effect, which would suffer by mutilation, we refer our readers to 
the text. 



JULIET. 



Juliet was the only daughter, and heiress, of the Capnlets, one* 
of the proudest families of Verona, conspicuous for the deadly 
enmity existing between them and the equally influential Mon- 
tagues. When Juliet had arrived at marriageable age, her father 
gave a grand masque at his palace, to which all the beauty and 
nobility of Verona were bid — among whom was Kosaline, niece to 
old Capulet, a fair but disdainful beauty, beloved by young Romeo 
Montague. To cure him of a hopeless passion, his friend, Ben- 
volio, persuaded him to go to the entertainment, strictly disguised, 
and there compare his fair Rosaline with the excelling beauties 
who would be present. 

Accordingly, Romeo and Benvolio, masked with studious pre- 
caution, for discovery would have been perilous, took part in the 
gay revel ; and the young Montague no sooner beheld the beautiful 
Juliet than he forgot his Rosaline, and became passionately en- 
amored of the fair Capulet. It was in his recklessly enthusiastic 
praise of her charms to Benvolio, that he was overheard by Tybalt, 
a hot-headed young kinsman of the Capulets, and recognized by 
his voice ; Tybalt would have laid violent hands on him at once, 
but old Capulet interfered. That very night, after the guests had 



18 JULIET. 

departed, and the inmates of the Capulet mansion had retired to 
their chambers, Romeo, spurred on by this new and irresistible 
passion, climbed the garden wall, and beheld the lady of his love 
seated on a balcony, indulging in the delicious reveries consequent 
upon her interview, in the ball-room, with Romeo. Overhearing 
her rapturous soliloquy, in which she called his name, he replied 
to it ; and they parted only after exchanging vows of everlasting 
constancy, and a promise to meet at Friar Laurence's cell the next 
day, for the solemnization of their nuptials. On the morrow, ac- 
cordingly, Romeo and Juliet were married by the holy Friar, who 
thought by this union to cancel forever the bitter feud between 
their houses ; but that very day, Tybalt, still intent upon avenging 
the insolent intrusion of Romeo, met him in the street, provoked 
a quarrel, fought with him, and was killed. 

For this fatal broil, the Prince of Verona banished Romeo, 
who, after taking a brief farewell of his few hours' bride, betook 
himself to Mantua. Jidiet's tears and lamentations were attributed 
to her grief for the loss of her cousin Tybalt — the sooner to dissi- 
pate which, her father insisted upon marrying her almost immedi- 
ately to the county Paris, " a gentleman of princely parentage and 
fair demesnes;" the wedding-day was set, and every preparation 
made. 

Poor Juliet, finding remonstrance unavailing, hastened in her 
sorrow to the good Friar, who bade her feign obedience to her 
father's will, and gave her a potent drug which should cause her 
to appear as if dead — telling her that, while in this state, she shoidd 
be borne to the burial vault of the Capulets, whence he and Ro- 
meo, for whom he would send, would rescue her. Juliet fulfilled 
his instructions ; in the morning, when young Paris came with 
music to awaken his bride, she was found " dead," and the joyful 
festivities were changed into a doleful funeral service. 



JULIET. 19 

The Friar then despatched a special messenger to Romeo, with 
a letter informing him of the true case ; but by some accident he 
was detained, and Romeo received intelligence through another 
source of his wife's death, which so distracted him with grief that 
he procured a deadly poison, and repaired forthwith to Juliet's 
tomb, determined to die on her beloved corse. Having reached 
the vault of the Capulets, he broke open the gloomy portal, and 
beheld the still beautiful body of his adored lady ; with one kiss 
he drained the fatal bowl, and breathed his last, just as Juliet 
awoke, and the Friar, warned of the detention of his envoy, ar- 
rived in the hope of preventing the impending disaster. 

This fatal catastrophe was productive, however, of one benefi- 
cial result : the Capulets and the Montagues were ever after united 
in bonds of friendship and interest — freely joining to do honor to 
the memory of those hapless victims to their accursed feud. 



Of Juliet, Mrs. Jameson says : " Such beautiful things have 
already been said of her, only to be exceeded in beauty by the 
subject that inspired them, it is impossible to say any thing bet- 
ter — but it is possible to say something more." Alas for our task ! 
this latter clause was true only before Mrs. Jameson wrote : not a 
detail of the subject has been neglected by her sympathetic pen ; 
at the best, we can hope but to repeat her. 

The loves of Romeo and Juliet, though physiologically, men- 
tally, and morally, possible only to their traditional birth-place, 
Italy, have in them that "touch of nature which makes the whole 
world kin ; " and it is to this element that we must attribute the 
universal popularity of the tragedy which commemorates them. 
To even the most lymphatic blood, the least susceptible fancy, 



20 JULIET. 

there come those few, brief, "perfect days," when Passion, for the 
first time, asserts its boundless sway over the brain and the pulses 
—filling the one with ecstatic dreams of a future as blissful as it is 
infinite, kindling in the other a tormenting yet delicious tumult ; 
and in proportion to the intensity with which we are capable of 
conceiving these emotions, is our sympathy with this story of two 
lovers, whose very names may stand for personifications of the pas- 
sion to which they were beautiful martyrs. 

At first it is the ingenuousness, the almost infantine simplicity, 
of Juliet's character, which endears her to our hearts. Her ex- 
treme youth, her rare beauty, which has been perfected in jealous 
seclusion ; her warm affections, repulsed by her austere parents, 
running to waste on her old nurse, — the only familiar object about 
which they may twine their eager tendrils ; and finally, her love 
for Romeo, born of a glance, a sigh, a touch — yet, from the mo- 
ment of its birth, a Titan which shakes to the centre her tender 
soul : all these constitute a picture, of which the interest and ro- 
mance are almost too intense. 

Yet it is not thus — in the first, happy delirium of her love — 
that Juliet engages our profoundest sympathy, our liveliest admi- 
ration. Not until Fate seems to have executed its most pitiless 
freaks upon her solitary heart; not until, her husband ban- 
ished, she loses her sole friend and confidante, by the discovery of 
her time-serving baseness — the only mother, in familiar affection, 
she has ever known — and she, for the first time in her young life, 
asserts her own individuality, invincible through the force of her 
love, does she command that absorbing interest which would never 
have been awakened by mere self-abandonment to passion. 

To use the words of Hazlitt, Juliet is, indeed, " a pure effusion 
of Nature " — a woman whose emotious and manifestations are of 
primeval innocence and vigor — in whom Love is the outward 



JULIET. 21 

expression of an instinct as beautiful and holy as it is vehement — 
who is " Love itself— the passion which is her state of being, and 
out of which she has no existence." In nothing has Shakspeare 
proved his wondrous skill more clearly than in this creation of 
a human beiug in whom sense asserts itself paramount over 
reason — indeed, whose only manifestations of intellect are the 
inspirations of exalted sentiment, a sensuously excited eloquence ; 
and yet who is endowed with such exquisite purity, as distin- 
guished fi-om the false teachings of a conventional modesty, that 
Eve herself is not more sacred from an imputation of grossness. 

It is in this view of her character, and of the idea which 
Shakspeare expressed through her, that we propose to exceed, 
by a little, our privileges, to consider a question which properly 
belongs to the jn'ovince of legitimate criticism. 

A woman and a wife, to whom the hymeneal mysteries are the 
solemnest of rites, at whose altar she presides with veiled eyes, a 
jealous priestess, could almost reproach this awful Master, that he 
has entered the nuptial chamber of Juliet's soul, and exposed its 
beautiful secrets in words well-nigh too sacred to be pronounced, 
even to herself; but, since he has done so, she must bow before 
him as one unto whom, indeed, all hearts were open ! 

Jul. Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds, 
Towards Phoebus' mansion ! such a waggoner 
As Phaeton would whip you to the west, 
And bring in cloudy night immediately. 
Spread thy close curtain, love-performing Night, 
That run-away's eyes may wink — and Romeo 
Leap to these arms, untalk'd of, and unseen ! 



Come, Night ! Come, Romeo ! Come, thou clay in night ! 
For thou wilt lie upon the wings of night 
Whiter than new snow on a raven's back ! 



22 JULIET. 

****** 
O ! I have bought the mansion of a love, 
But not possess'd it ; and, though I am sold, 
Not yet enjoy'd. So tedious is this day, 
As is the night before some festival 
To an impatient child, that hath new robes 
And may not wear them. 

In this adjuration to Night, which is imbued with all the dim, 
ecstatic fervor of an epithalamium, the one word "run-away's" 
has given cause, perhaps, for more learned disputation and inge- 
nious invention, to arrive at a satisfactory substitute, than any 
other in all of Shakspeare's much-abused text. And as to be his 
"scholar" is a position which "the humblest may with humility 
assume," may we not offer, with all becoming diffidence, a sugges- 
tion, which can be valuable only because it is the fruit of long 
pondering with our heart ? 

It will be remembered that Juliet, with the quick susceptibil- 
ity of an Italian woman, having seen Romeo but once, loves him 
— with such absorbing love as, in a colder clime, would have 
required months, or even years, to mature ; the very difficulties 
which surround them — the feudal enmity between their houses, 
which is fatal to their hopes — serve but to augment the enthusi- 
astic fervor with which she abandons herself to her newly found 
delight. They exchange love-vows on the night of then* very first 
meeting, and the next day they are joined by Holy Church in 
wedlock. 

It is evidently late in the afternoon of a long, long, weary day 
of anxious hope and fear, and all the delirious ebbing and flowing 
of her heart's full tide, that Juliet gives utterance to this pas- 
sionate longing, as, trembling with the reaction of her excited 
alarms, she sees almost within her reach the blessed darkness 
which shall again bring her lover to her — this time a husband ; 



JULIET. 23 

so that in blest security her eyes, nm-away's eyes—wife open the 
livelong day, on the look-out lest the very flowers may have 
blabbed her cherished secret — may wvrik : that is, may close in 
grateful repose, in exquisite peace, at last ; and that, shut in from 
all the world, as with curtains, (" Spread thy close curtain, love- 
performing Night,") Romeo may leap to her arms, "untalk'd of, 
and unseen." 

The term " run-away," in her application of it to herself, affects 
us with peculiar tenderness ; could any thing be more touching in 
its pretty playfulness, more Juliet-like, than for her thus to liken 
herself unto a naughty child, which has stolen away from its par- 
ents to do the very thing, of all others in the world, that 
would most anger them? And she pursues the image, in again 
comparing herself to an "impatient child, that hath new robes 
and may not wear them." If the original word be " run-aways," 
plural, the same idea will apply equally to Romeo and herself; it 
would be even more natural for her to couple, and name alike, 
their identical transgressions. 

Spread thy close curtain, love-performing Night, 
That run-away's eyes may wink ; and Romeo 
Leap to these arms, untalk'd of, and unseen ! 

The formidable stumbling-block to emendators has consisted 
in the supposed necessity of substituting for "run-away's" a met- 
aphorical word to which these two participles can equally ap- 
ply; but when we consider the fact that the discovery by her 
cousin Tybalt, of Romeo's audacious intrusion on their revel the 
night before, must have constituted the absorbing topic of conver- 
sation all day among the members of Juliet's own family— every 
word of which has blanched her cheek and filled her soul with 
quick alarms— does it not seem reasonable that the immediate 



24 JULIET. 

reference for the " untalk'd of" should exist only in her mind ? Is 
not a critically sustained figure even unnatural to the excited state 
of imagination which inspires the whole passage — and very un- 
Shakspearian besides ? 

As for the " unseen," why should that refer to the shutting of 
somebody's or something's eyes, when Romeo's invisibility de- 
pends only on what she is praying for, the coming of night ? Is 
it not far more probable that the direct allusions of both partici- 
ples should be " understood," than that in a soliloquy, under the 
influence of such emotions, Juliet would have employed a figure 
so elaborate, or so remote, that its discovery has baffled the learn- 
ing and ingenuity of patient students from that time to this ? 

The word Mwnowrd'a has been advanced with confidence, to 
take the place of " run-away's ; " but — granting that Juliet could 
have maintained a figure of speech unimpaired, amid a chasing 
whirl of thoughts which found their only relief in fantastic ex- 
travagances without rule or order — in a highly figurative sense 
how can it be said that Rumor (meaning scandal) ever shuts her 
eyes ? How could Juliet feel assured that the simple coming of 
night would close the eyes of this she- Argus, when it is then that 
she is most awake, and finds the choicest morsels for her flippant 
tongue ? 

An accomplished scholar and critic, Mr. Richard Grant White, 
has declared : " To correct a single passage in Shakspeare's text is 
glory enough for one man. He who discovers the needful word for 
the misprint, ' run-away's eyes,' will secure the honorable mention 
of his name as long as the English language is read and spoken." 

To rescue the same passage from unnecessary " correction," and 
keep out " needful words " where no misprint is, should be glory 
enough for one woman; and without presuming to believe that 
the writer of this has succeeded where so many abler have failed, 



JULIET. 25 

she may still venture to hope that the promised honor may yet 
fall to her sex. Where learning and research have been tried in 
vain, much faith should be reposed in the intuitive poetry, the 
quick, sympathetic understanding of a woman's heart, on a subject 
wherein her instincts are directly involved ; and such an interpreter 
will not appeal in vain to the pure bridal mind of the Juliets of 
to-day, for whose sympathetic understanding the passionate out- 
burst of their Skakspearian sister has utterances, almost unutter- 
ably true. 

For a picture of superlative delicacy, the boldness of conscious 
innocence, and the delicious flutterings of a young heart wherein 
Love has but commenced the erection of his airy throne, Juliet in 
the balcony scene is unapproached. Hazlitt says of this scene, and 
that where the lovers part, the morning after their marriage : 
" Both are like a heaven upon earth — the blissful bowers of Para- 
dise let down upon this lower world." 

From the first, which we all know by heart — where "the 
whole of the dialogue appropriated to Juliet is one rich stream of 
imagery" — the following extract, alone, will suffice to prove that 
Juliet's character is the union of " passionate violence " with the 
rarest refinement and most delicate purity : 

Jul. Thou kiiow'st the mask of night is on my face ; 
Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek, 
For that which thou hast heard me speak to-night. 
Fain would I dwell on form — fain, fain deny 
What I have spoke ; But farewell, compliment ! 
Dost thou love me ? I know thou wilt say — Ay ; 
And I will take thy word. Yet, if thou swear'st, 
Thou may'st prove false ; at lovers' perjuries 
They say Jove laughs. O gentle Romeo, 
If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully ; 
Or if thou think'st I am too qirickly won, 
I'll frown, and be perverse, and say thee nay — 
4 



26 JULIET. 

So thou wilt woo ; but, else, not for the world. 
In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond ; 
And therefore thou may'st think my haviour light : 
But trust me, gentleman, I'll prove more true 
Than those that have more cunning to be strange. 
I should have been more strange, I must confess, 
But that thou overheard'st, ere I was ware, 
My true love's passion. Therefore pardon me, 
And not impute this yielding to light love, 
Which the dark ni^ht hath so discovered. 



Well, do not swear. Although I joy in thee, 
I have no joy of this contract to-night : 
It is too rash, too unadvis'd, too sudden — 
Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be, 
Ere one can say — It lightens. Sweet, good night ! 
This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath, 
May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet. 
Good night, good night ! as sweet repose and rest 
Come to thy heart, as that within my breast ! 

Without vain preface of admiration, here is the other : 

Jul. Wilt thou be gone ? it is not yet near day : 
It was the nightingale, and not the lark, 
That pierc'd the fearful hollow of thine ear ; 
Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate tree — 
Believe me, love, it was the nightingale. 

Horn. It was the lark, the herald of the morn, 
No nightingale. Look, love, what envious streaks 
Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east ! 
Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund Day 
Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops ; 
I must be gone and live, or stay and die. 

Jul. Yon light is not day-light — I know it, I : 
It is some meteor that the sun exhales, 
To be to thee this night a torch-bearer, 
And light thee on thy way to Mantua. 
Therefore stay yet, thou need'st not to be gone. 



JULIET. 21 

Rom. Let me be ta'en, let me be put to death ; 
I am content, so thou wilt have it so. 
I'll say yon gray is not the morning's eye — 
'Tis but the pale reflex of Cynthia's brow ; 
Nor that is not the lark, whose notes do beat 
The vaulty heaven so high above our heads. 
I have more care to stay than will to go ; — 
Come, Death, and welcome ! Juliet wills it so. — 
How is't, my soul ? Let's talk, it is not day. 

Jul. It is, it is ! Hie hence, be gone, away ! 
It is the lark that sings so out of tune, 
Straining harsh discords, and impleasing sharps. 
Some say the lark,makes sweet division ; 
This doth not so, for she divideth us. 
Some say the lark and loathed toad change eyes ; 
O, now I would they had changed voices too ! 
Since arm from arm that voice doth us affray, 
Hunting thee hence with hunts-up to the day. 
O, now be gone ! more light and light it grows. 

Rom. More light and light ? — more dark and dark our woes. 

Instead of ignoring the personal charms of Juliet in the su- 
perior interest which attaches to the tragic events of her story — ■ 
as is true of almost every other woman in this fair company — there 
is no situation in the whole play of such dramatic intensity that it 
compels us to lose sight of them, so completely is the whole picture 
imbued with their excelling richness. 

The single description "by Romeo, as he gazes for the first time 
on her who will he his wife ere another night rolls round, is suffi- 
cient, of itself, \o set her forever in our mind's eye, a thing of beauty 
and " a joy forever." 

O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright ! 
Her beauty hangs upon the cheek of Night 
Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear — 
Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear ! 
So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows, 
As yonder lady o'er her fellows shows. 



28 JULIET. 

And not less to this effect is his address to her, as she lies on her 
bier in the tomb of the Capulets : 

Here lies Juliet ; and her beauty makes 
This vault a feasting presence full of light. 



* * * * O, my love ! my wife ! 

Death, that hath suck'd the honey of thy breath, 
Hath had no power yet upon thy beauty. 
Thou art not conquer'd ; Beauty's ensign yet 
Is crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks, 
And Death's pale flag is not advanced there. 



* * * * Ah, dear Juliet, 

Why ai-t thou yet so fair ? Shall I believe 
That unsubstantial Death is amorous, 
And that the lean abhorred monster keeps 
Thee here in dark to be his paramour ? 



OPHELIA. 

Ophelia, daughter of Polonius, lord-chamberlain to Claudius, 
King of Denmark, was beloved by Prince Hamlet, son of the pre- 
vious, and nephew of the then reigning sovereign ; for Queen Ger- 
trude, Hamlet's mother, had with indecent haste married her de- 
ceased husband's brother. The shame of this unseemly conduct in 
his mother, added to grief for the death of his revered father, had 
so preyed on the mind of Hamlet, that a morbid melancholy took 
possession of him, and, it would seem, endowed him with super- 
natural prescience to suspect that his father had been murdered 
by his uncle, who had crowned his wicked ambition by marrying 
the queen-widow. While in this state of distracting doubt, he 
was informed, by some gentlemen of the court, that as they were 
on guard before the palace, the ghost of the late king, his noble 
father, had appeared to them three successive nights ; whereupon, 
Hamlet watched with them, to test the truth of their words. At 
midnight the ghost appeared, and beckoned to Hamlet to follow it 
to a retired spot, where to his amazed ears it revealed the story of 
its murder by the treacherous brother, and commanded Hamlet to 
avenge the foul deed, but to leave the punishment of the guilty 
queen to Heaven and her -own conscience: and then, as the cock 
crew, the poor ghost vanished. 



30 OPHELIA. 

Henceforth, self-dedicated to retribution, Hamlet counterfeited 
a harmless insanity, with fantastic tricks and " wild and whirling " 
words, calculated to distract attention from his secret purpose. 

The king and queen, believing that the death of his father had 
occasioned this deplorable result, devised amusements to divert his 
mind : a company of players having been summoned to court, 
Hamlet seized the opportunity, and made use of them to prove to 
his own satisfaction the truth of the ghost's communication. He 
contrived for their representation a play, to be performed before 
the king, which should reproduce to the life the scene of his 
father's murder, as described by the ghost — the wife marrying 
with the poisoner of her husband. 

The snare was successful ; the guilty fears of the king betrayed 
him ; with incoherent exclamations he interrupted the play, and 
retreated, all aghast, from the apartment. 

Immediately after this scene of confusion, Queen Gertrude 
summoned Hamlet to her closet, intending to remonstrate with 
bim upon his indecorous behavior ; and during the somewhat vio- 
lent altercation between them, he heard a noise behind the hang- 
ings of the room. Suspecting that the king was concealed there, 
he exclaimed, in an assumed frenzy, " A rat ! a rat ! " and pierced 
the arras with his sword, thereby killing the wily old statesman, 
Polonius, who had been posted to take note of the interview. 

This fatal mistake served as a pretext for sending Hamlet out 
of the country — there being much disaffection among the people 
consequent upon the unwarrantable murder of Polonius ; and the 
king despatched him to England, with secret papers providing for 
his assassination immediately on his arrival. The ship being at- 
tacked by pirates on the voyage, Hamlet boarded their vessel dm* 
ing the fight, and the king's creatures put off at once, leaving him 
to his fate. The pirates, on learning the rank of their captive, 



OPHELIA. 31 

treated hiin with singular respect, and in consideration of his 
promise to exert a merciful influence in their "behalf, landed him, 
unharmed, on the shores of Denmark. 

In the meanwhile, however, the gentle lady Ophelia, over- 
whelmed with grief for the madness of her lover, and horror of her 
father's murder by his hand, had languished and " pined in thought," 
till her mind became hopelessly imbecile. She wandered about at 
her own lost will, bedecked with fantastic finery, chanting snatches 
of old ballads, her modest tongue now babbling coarse jests ; and 
one day, enrobing a willow that grew on the margin of a brook, to 
hang a garland on its far-reaching bough, the slender limb broke, 
and she was precipitated into the stream : 

Her clothes spread wide, 
And, mermaid like, a while they bore her up : 
Which time, she chanted snatches of old tunes, 
As one incapable of her own distress, 
Or like a creature native and indu'd 
Unto that element. But long it could not be, 
Till that her garments, heavy with their drink, 
Pull'd the poor wretch from her melodious lay 
To muddy death. 

The funeral of the hapless lady was celebrated with all affection 
and honorable ceremony, the king and queen in person taking part 
in her obsequies ; and it was this sad spectacle which greeted 
Hamlet on his return home — the procession entering the church- 
yard while he was loitering there, in conversation with his friend 
Horatio. Frantic with grief, cruelly augmented by such sudden 
intelligence of Ophelia's death, and the manner of it, he leaped 
into her grave, vowing to be buried alive with her whom he had 
loved so fondly, till the horrible purpose of his life had driven 
every other emotion from his harassed mind. 



32 OPHELIA. 

Hamlet, shortly after this sad event, met his death at the hands 
of Laertes, with whom he was engaged in a fencing match in the 
presence of the court. The king had easily won over Laertes to 
play treacherously with Hamlet, and had prepared a poisoned 
draught for the prince, in case he should escape the envenomed 
blade of his adversary. The queen, not privy to the king's plot, 
drank of the fatal bowl, from the effects of which she died on the 
spot. Laertes and Hamlet wounded each other mortally with the 
poisoned foil, which changed hands in the scuffle. In his dying 
agonies Laertes confessed his vile plot with the king, and Hamlet, 
with his last remaining strength, stabbed the royal parricide to the 
heart with the same weapon which had dealt his own death-blow. 



We shrink from the task of dissecting the sensitive beauties of 
Ophelia's character, as we should from the necessity of tearing 
apart the blushing bosom of a rose to count its stamens, or of im- 
paling a butterfly to ascertain its " family ; " we prefer to have a 
not too sharply defined idea of this most delicate embodiment, to 
accept her as a beautiful article of faith, which it is neither neces- 
sary nor desirable to thoroughly understand. 

Ophelia is a more ideal, a more purely imaginative creation 
than Juliet or Desdemona ; with the story of her youth, her ten- 
der beauty, her hapless love which leads to insanity and a tragic 
death, we sympathize less painfully than with the sorrows of those 
more vividly depicted heroines ; indeed the very tints, pale yet 
enduring, in which her shadowy outline is traced, constitute a 
touching appeal to the hand of a would-be "restorer;" one should 
be content to spare her retiring delicacy any sentiment of pity 
more impertinently familiar than a tender pathos. 



OPHELIA. 33 

The childlike nature of Ophelia, innocent of even the knowl- 
edge of evil, impresses us from the first with the conviction that 
she is foredoomed a victim — a beautiful hut inevitable sacrifice to 
relentless Destiny. Amid the had passions, the subtle plottings, 
the tasteless criminality of the Danish court, she alights, a dove of 
gentleness and love, a very snowflake of virginity ; she must die, 
or suffer contamination — and she fulfils the only alternative possi- 
ble to her. In contradistinction to our almost resentful contem- 
plation of the sad fates which befall Juliet and Desdemona, we are 
perfectly reconciled to the melancholy consummation of Ophelia's 
woes. "We feel that, to her, reaction from so blasting a shock 
would be impossible — -that after the first rude jarring of her deli- 
cately attuned sensibilities, which leaves them shattered and dis- 
cordant, their sweet harmony can never again be restored. 

It is pitiful to note how this young creature, whose love is so 
exquisitely sensitive that she scarce confesses it to herself, is tor- 
tured by the tactless catechizing of her hot-headed brother, and 
her garrulous, worldly-wise old father — of all men the two least 
fitted to probe the tender depths of her heart, and having found 
its secret, to advise her of her danger without corrupting her an- 
gelic purity. 

The very faith she reposes in their words, accepting them as 
oracles, however her instinctive belief in her lover's honor may cry 
out against the outrage, renders their lessons the more cruel ; she 
has no wit with which to confound them, no words to uphold her 
in ever so gentle an argument ; she has no choice but to believe 
and obey — a mere puppet in their hands. At first, allowed the 
full bent of her inclination in giving audience "most free and 
bounteous " unto the lord Hamlet ; then forbidden to see or speak 
with him ; and still again, given up to him, as it were, as an un- 
feeling test of his alleged madness for her love : when we consider 



34 



OPHELIA. 



the alternations of hope, fear, and final despair which must have 
attended each experiment, we cannot be surprised that they result 
in a total overthrow of her " most ingenious sense," " dividing her 
from her fair judgment." 

The interviews between Ophelia and Laertes, or Polonius, are 
inexpressibly touching : 



Laer. For Hamlet, and the trifling of his favor, 
Hold it a fashion, and a toy in blood — 
A violet in the youth of prirny nature, 
Forward, not permanent, sweet, not lasting, 
The perfume and suppliance of a minute ; 
No more. 

Oph. No more but so ? 

Laer. Think it no more. 

********* 

Pol. What is't, Ophelia, he said to you ? 

Oph. So please you, something touching the lord Hamlet. 

Pol. Marry, weU bethought : 
'Tis told me, he hath very oft of late 
Given private time to you ; and you yourself 
Have of your audience been most free and bounteous. 
********** 
What is between you ? Give me up the truth. 

Oph. He hath, my lord, of late, made many tenders 
Of his aflection to me. 

Pol. Affection ? pub. ! you speak like a green girl, 
Unsifted in such perilous circumstance. 
Do you believe his tenders, as you call them ? 

Oph. I do not know, my lord, what I should think. 

Pol. Marry, I'll teach you : think yourself a baby, 
That you have ta'en these tenders for true pay 
Which are not sterling. 

Oph. My lord, he hath importun'd me with love, 
In honorable fashion. 

Pol. Ay, fashion you may call it ; go to, go to ! 

Oph. And hath given countenance to his speech, my lord, 
With almost aU the holy vows of heaven. 



OPHELIA. 35 

Pol. Ay ! springes, to catch woodcocks. 
From this time, 
Be somewhat scanter of your maiden presence ; 
Set your entreatinents at a higher rate 
Than a command to parley. For lord Hamlet, 
Believe so much in him — that he is young ; 
And with a larger tether may he walk 
Than may be given you ; In few, Ophelia, 
Do not believe his vows. * * * 

* * * * This is for all :— 
I would not, in plain terms, from this time forth, 
Have you so slander any moment's leisure, 
As to give words or talk with the lord Hamlet. 
Look to 't, I charge you ; come your ways. 

Oph. I shall obey, my lord. 

But if these exhibitions of Ophelia's pitiable helplessness are 
sad, what shall be thought of her permitted interview with her 
lover, to whom, in two short, simple sentences, she tells the story 
of all she has suffered, and must die for ? — and what shall be said 
of Hamlet, thus to flay alive the innocent soul which had given 
itself so unreservedly into his keeping ? But we are magnifying 
our office ; not ours, thank heaven, the task to justify that myth of 
myths: 

Sam. ******* 
***** Soft you, now ! 
The fair Ophelia : — Nymph, in thy orisons 
Be all my sins remember'd. 

Oph. Good my lord, 

How does your honor for this many a day ? 
Sam. I humbly thank you — well. 
Oph. My lord, I have remembrances of yours 
That I have longed long to re-deliver ; 
I pray you, now receive them. 

Sam. N"o, not I ; 

I never gave you aught. 

Oph. My honor'd lord, you know right well you did ; 
And, with them, words of so sweet breath compos'd 



OPHELIA. 

As made the things more rich. Their perfume lost, 
Take these again ; for to the noble mind 
Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind. 
There, my lord ! 

Mam. ******* 
I did love you once. 

Oph. Indeed, my lord, you made me believe so. 

Ham. You should not have believed me ; for virtue 
cannot so inoculate our old stock but we shall relish of 
it. I lov'd you not. 

Oph. I was the more deceived. 
* * * * * * * *"* * 

Ham. If thou dost marry, I'll give thee this plague 
for thy dowry : Be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, 
thou shalt not escape calumny. Get thee to a nunnery ; 
farewell ! Or, if thou wilt needs marry, marry a fool ; 
for wise men know well enough what monsters you 
make of them. To a nunnery, go ! and quickly too. 
Farewell ! 

Oph. Heavenly powers, restore him ! 

Ham. I have heard of your paintings, too, well 
enough ; God hath given you one face, and you make 
yourselves another ; you jig, you amble, and you lisp, 
and nickname God's creatures, and make your wanton- 
ness your ignorance : Go to, I'll no more of 't ; it hath 
made me mad. I say, we will have no more marriages : 
those that are married already, all but one, shall live ; 
the rest shall keep as they are. To a nunnery, go ! 

Oph. O, what a noble mind is here o'erthrown ! 
The courtier's, soldier's, scholar's eye, tongue, sword, 
The expectancy and rose of the fair state, 
The glass of fashion and the mould of form, 
The observed of all observers — quite, quite down ! 
And I, of ladies most deject and wretched, 
That suck'd the honey of his music vows, 
Now see that noble and most sovereign reason, 
Like sweet bells jangled, out of tune and harsh — 
That unmatch'd form and feature of blown youth, 
Blasted with ecstasy. O, woe is me ! 
To have seen what I have seen, see what I see ! 



IMOGEN. 



The princess Imogen, daughter of Cymbeline, King of Britain, 
had secretly married Posthunms, an orphan, who had been in a 
manner adopted by the king, and educated as his own son. 
Cymbeline, by his first queen, had three children — Imogen, and two 
sons, who were stolen in infancy by a revengeful courtier ; his 
second queen had one son by a former marriage, named Cloten, 
for whom she employed every means to secure the hand of Imo- 
gen, sole heiress to the British throne. The discovery of Imogen's 
secret marriage frustrated these ambitious plans, and so incensed 
the king, her father, that he banished Posthumus from the king- 
dom. Posthumus left with his bride, for their mutual service, his 
faithful gentleman Pisanio ; and so they parted, after having ex- 
changed love-pledges — Imogen giving her husband a rare diamond 
ring, and he bestowing in return a curious bracelet. 

Arrived in Rome, Posthumus fell in company with a party of 
gay young fellows, who were descanting on the charms and supe- 
rior excellencies of their respective mistresses ; and he, joining the 
good-humored wranglers, boasted his blessed possession of the 
faultless Imogen. Whereupon Iachimo, a Roman, laid a wager — 



38 IMOGEN. 

the half of his estates against the diamond ring which Posthumus 
wore — that he would repair to Britain and bring back abundant 
proof that he had won Imogen's love, and accomplished her dis- 
honor. The wager was accepted; and Iachimo arrived at the 
British court with a letter from Posthumus to his wife, recom- 
mending his honored friend to her courteous attention. 

Iachimo, after insinuating doubts of her husband's fidelity into 
the chaste mind of the princess, told her of his shameless relations 
with some Roman woman, and ended by inciting her to revenge 
herself upon her recreant lord by accepting his own infamous propo- 
sals. Imogen's indignation at this gratuitous insult to her virtue, 
left Iachimo no chance of success ; but he quickly obtained her 
forgiveness by confessing it a ruse to test her chastity. Before he 
took his leave he received permission from Imogen to allow a chest 
of valuables, in which he said her husband was interested, to be 
conveyed to her bed-chamber for safe-keeping. In this trunk he 
concealed himself ; and when the princess was asleep, he emerged 
from his hiding-place, took careful note of the furnishings of the 
apartment, as well as of a secret mark on her person, and possessed 
himself of the precious bracelet, that he might take back to Borne 
plausible proofs of his having succeeded in his extraordinary ad- 
venture. 

Provided with these, he had little difficulty in deceiving Pos- 
thumus, who, distracted with grief, sent orders to Pisanio to kill 
Imogen. At the same time, Posthumus despatched a letter to his 
wife, instructing her to meet him at a Welch town. Pisanio, con- 
vinced of his mistress's innocence, revealed to her her husband's sus- 
picions, and assured her that, so far from obeying his master's cruel 
orders, he had accompanied her thus far only to set her on the 
way to Posthumus, whom she must disabuse of his false impres- 
sions ; for her better protection, he disguised her as a page, and, 



IMOGEN. 39 

in case she should be ill, gave her a powerful drug, which the 
queen had bestowed uj^on hhn as a valuable restorative. 

Exhausted with fatigue and hunger, Imogen entered a cave, in 
the forest through which she was journeying, which was inhabited 
by an old man and his two sons, who led the lives of hunters. They 
made her welcome to their rude comforts; but she fell ill, and 
bethinking her of Pisanio's drug, swallowed a portion of it, and 
was thrown into a trance, which so resembled death that the 
youths laid her in the forest, making her a grave of leaves and 
flowers. 

Awaking from this deep slumber, she was found by Lucius, 
the Roman general, who took her into his service as a page ; and 
thus she travelled with the grand Roman army, which had then 
invaded England, and was marching towards the capital. Postku- 
mus also was following this army, to join the British host so soon 
as it should reach its destination. 

In an engagement between the opposing forces, Posthumus, 
and the two hunter-lads who had entertained Imogen, by their 
desperate valor saved King Cymbeline from defeat and death. 
Lucius, together with his page Fidele, and Iachimo, were taken 
prisoners and brought before the king — Posthumus being sum- 
moned likewise, to receive sentence of death for having, unbidden, 
returned fi-om banishment. "Whereupon all mystery was cleared 
away : the two youths proved to be Cymbeline's lost sons, who 
had been brought up by Belarius ; Imogen discovered herself, 
to the great joy of her father ; Iachimo confessed Ins treachery ; 
and Posthumus, freely pardoned by his king and wife, was re- 
stored to her faithful love. 



40 IMOGEN. 

To Imogen has been awarded, almost without a dissenting 
voice, the high distinction of being the most admirable of her im- 
mortal company — a woman in whom all perfections meet in rare 
harmony — who never cloys, never disappoints. 

Of all Shakspeare's wives — and he delighted in shaping models 
of conjugal fidelity — she is the master-piece ; chaste, ardent, brave, 
devoted, and beautiful, she is indeed " best of wives, most delight- 
ful of women." The secret charm of Imogen's character is that 
she comes within the range of popular sympathy more successfully 
than her equally excellent married sisters : we never recognize 
Juliet as a wife — in fact, she never assumes that position ; *at the 
best, we offer but cold tribute of admiration to the classic virtues 
of Hermione and the Roman Portia ; Desdemona we pity, tender- 
ly, though with a degree of half-conscious contempt. But our 
sweet princess of Britain commands our exalted respect, while she 
elicits a sympathy which can never degenerate into commiseration. 

With all her softness, her "fear and niceness" — a "lady so 
tender of rebukes that words are strokes, and strokes death to 
her " — she is not, like Desdemona, passive under injustice, even to 
painful self-humihation ; or, like Hermione, statuesqnely heroic. 
Her dignity is never more proudly asserted than in her very subjec- 
tion to her husband's will, even when he is no longer entitled to 
her duty. 

An excellent exemplification of this trait of her character is 
afforded by the scene in which Pisanio detains her, when midway on 
her rapturous journey to meet her banished lord, to confess that 
Posthumus has ordered him to kill her, on an accusation of infi- 
delity. 

She receives the astounding intelligence, at first, with all the 
indignation natural to a woman whose purity is equalled by her 
spirit : 



IMOGEN. 41 

False to his bed ! What is it to be false ? 

To lie in watch there, and to think on him ? 

To weep 'twixt clock and clock? if sleep charge nature, 

To break it with a fearful dream of him, 

And cry myself awake ? That's false to his bed, 

Is it? 

Yet her despair, her shocking disappointment in one who, to 
her fond eyes, had " sat 'mongst men like a descended god," even 
a half malicious desire to die, in order that her husband's remorse 
may he complete when he discovers his mistake, influence her to 
pray for death at Pisanio's hands : 

Imo. ******** 
Come, fellow, be thou honest : 
Do thou thy master's bidding. "When thou see'st him, 
A little witness my obedience. Look ! 
I draw the sword myself! take it ; and hit 
The innocent mansion of my love, my heart ! 
Fear not ; 'tis empty of all things, but grief. 
Thy master is not there, who was, indeed, 
The riches of it. Do his bidding ; strike ! 

How similar, and yet how mil ike, too, is the following remon- 
strance to Hermione's words to her husband under almost the same 
circumstances : 



And thou, Posthumus, thou that didst set up 
My disobedience 'gainst the king my father, 
And make me put into contempt the suits 
Of princely fellows, shalt hereafter find 
It is no act of common passage, but 
A strain of rareness ; and I grieve myself 
To think, when thou shalt be disedg'd by her 
That now thou tir'st on, how thy memory 
Will then be pang'd by me. 



42 IMOGEN. 

With what a pretty acknowledgment of dependence on hei 
love, does she answer Pisanio's plans for her future disposition : 

Why, good fellow, 
What shall I do the while ? Where bide ? How live, 
Or in my life what comfort, when I am 
Dead to my husband ? 

— which is paralleled, in sentiment and construction, by her reply 
to Iachhno, in that grandly characteristic scene where he attempts 
her dishonor by poisoning her ear with foul suspicions of her 
lord's loyalty : 

Reveng'd ! 
How should I be reveng'd ? If this be true, 
(As I have such a heart that both mine ears 
Must not in haste abuse,) — if it be true, 
How should I be reveng'd ? 

We cannot agree with those who deny the possession of jealousy 
to Imogen ; nor can we regard as a blemish in her the possession 
of just so much as is natural to a woman of sensitive imagination 
and ardent emotions. To be grandly superior to this most femi- 
nine weakness would argue, either that she was endowed with self- 
esteem so overweening as to preclude to hep mind the possibility 
of a rival, or that she was passionless to indifference — either sup- 
position being absurd in its application to her. We detect a 
pretty trace of this element in the parting scene with Posthumus : 

Imo. Nay, stay a little : 
Were you but riding forth to air yourself, 
Such parting were too petty. Look here, love ! 
This diamond was my mother's ; take it, heart ! 
But keep it till you woo another wife, 
When Imogen is dead. 



IMOGEN. 43 



Post. How ! how ! another ? — 
You gentle gods, give me but this I have, 
And sear up my embracements from a next 
With bonds of death ! 



— which is plainly but a tender trick to catch his amorous pro- 
testations in reply. But she repeats it, and this time with more 
passionate meaning : 

I did not take my leave of him, but had 

Most pretty things to say. Ere I could tell him 

How I would think on him at certain hours, 

Such thoughts, and such ; or I could make him swear 

The shes of Italy should not betray 

Mine interest and his honor ; or have charg'd him, 

At' the sixth hour of morn, at noon, at midnight, 

To encounter me with orisons — for then 

I am in heaven for him ; or ere I could 

Give him that parting kiss which I had set 

Betwixt two charming words — comes in my father, 

And, like the tyrannous breathing of the north, 

Shakes all our buds from growing. 

This last conceit is superfihely delicate ; indeed, the scene through- 
out shows Imogen almost Juliet-like in her extravagant fancies and 
highly wrought imaginings. 

And again, in her vehement talk with Pisanio, she at once 
seizes upon the abhorred conclusion to solve the horrible mystery 
of her lord's injustice : 



* * * * * Some jay of Italy, 
Whose mother was her painting, hath betray'd him. 
Poor I am stale, a garment out of fashion ; 
And, for I am richer than to hang by the walls, 
I must be ripp'd : — to pieces with me ! 



44 IMOGEN. 

Pisauio essays to comfort her : 

It cannot be, 
But that my master is abus'd : 
Some villain — ay, and singular in his art — 
Hath done you both this cursed injury. . 
Imo. Some Roman courtezan. 

She persistently rejects every other supposition for this one, which 
is of all the least probable, except to her self-tortured heart. 

Imogen, -with the single exception of Juliet, must be considered 
the most beautiful of her sisterhood ; throughout the text much 
pains is taken to scatter passages tending to the establishment of 
this charming impression. We cannot see her "clothed on" with 
that " bewildering plenitude of loveliness " with which a more gal- 
lant admirer endows her ; our idea of her person, photographically 
fixed, is that of extreme but enchanting delicacy ; and this is satis- 
factorily supported by a careful study of the effect her beauty pro- 
duces on the beholder. Belarius says of her when, famished, she 
has entered his cave : 

Stay ! come not in ! — 
But that it eats our victuals, I should think 
Here were a fairy. 

By Jupiter, an angel ! or if not, 

An earthly paragon ! — Behold divineness 

No elder than a boy ! 

And of like character are several descriptions in the exquisite 
burial scene : 

Qui. Oh sweetest, fairest lily ! 

My brother wears thee not one half so well 
As when thou grew'st thyself. 



IMOGEN. 45 



***** Why, lie but sleeps : 
If he be gone, he'll make Ms grave a bed ; 
With female fairies will his tomb be haunted, 
And worms will not come to thee. 

Arv. With fairest flowers— 

Whilst summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele— 
I'll sweeten thy sad grave : Thou shalt not lack 
The flower that's like thy face, pale primrose ; nor 
The azur'd hare-bell, like thy veins ; no, nor 
The leaf of eglantine, whom not to slander, 
Out-sweeten'd not thy breath ; the ruddock would, 
With charitable bill, (O bill, sore-shaming 
Those rich-left heirs that let their fathers lie 
Without a monument !) bring thee all this ; 
Yea, and furr'd moss besides, when flowers are none, 
To winter-ground thy corse. 



And in lachimo's description it is noticeable that, although its 
luxurious imagery is even oppressive, there is none of the gross- 
ness which might be expected from so unscrupulous a libertine ; 
it would seem that the chaste, almost supernatural, loveliness of 
the sleeping lady had refined him for the time : 



****** Cytherea, 
How bravely thou becom'st thy bed ! fresh lily — 
And whiter than the sheets ! That I might touch ! 
But kiss ! one kiss ! — Rubies unparagon'd, 
How dearly they do 't— 'Tis her breathing that 
Perfumes the chamber thus. The flame o' the taper 
Bows toward her, and would underpeep her lids, 
To see the enclosed lights, now canopied 
Under these windows : White and azure, lac'd 
With blue of heaven's own tinct ! 
********* 
***** On her left breast 
A mole cinque-spotted, like the crimson drops 



46 IMOGEN. 

I' the bottom of a cowslip. Here's a voucher, 
Stronger than ever law could make ! 

As to the ways of Imogen, there is a pretty suggestiveness in 
the circumstance of her reading late in bed, and in the matter of 
her reading : 

Imo. What hour is it ? 

Lady. About midnight, madam. 

Imo. I have read three hours then ; mine eyes are weak ; 
Fold down the leaf where I have left. To bed ! 



loch. * * * She hath been reading late, 
The tale of Tereus ; here, the leaf's turned down 
Where Philomel gave up. 



: i.«5,.. 



.-»--■ ;-. ;■-;=.-;. 




. 



MIRANDA. 

Once upon a time, the fair kingdom of Milan was governed by 
Duke Prospero, an honorable prince, beloved by his subjects, but 
given much more to the pursuit of art and science, and the " bet- 
tering of his mind," than to the management of the state. All his 
worldly affairs, the cares and ceremonies devolving upon his posi- 
tion, he confided to Antonio, his younger brother, who, being an 
ambitious, unscrupulous man, so turned the flattering trust to his 
own advantage, that, with the assistance of the king of Naples, he 
usurped the throne 

Antonio feared the people's displeasure if he should put his 
brother to death ; so he sent Prospero out to sea, with Miranda, 
his only child, as yet an infant — giving orders to Gonzalo, one of 
his lords, to set them adrift in a wretched boat with no provision, 
and leave them thus to perish. 

Gonzalo, however, took pity on the good duke and his pretty 
babe : he was forced to obey, in part, his new master's orders ; but 
he filled the boat with food, clothmg-stuffs, and a few volumes 
from the royal library, of which Prospero had been only too fond. 

By and by the boat, tossed hither and thither by the waves, 
was cast upon an enchanted island, uninhabited save by spirits, 



48 MIRANDA. 

Here Prospero fitted up a cave to be his dwelling-place, and here 
he tenderly nurtured his child, and studied his hooks of magic, of 
which pet science of that day, he was a master. By virtue of this 
knowledge he released many beautiful spirits, confined in the 
bodies of trees by a cruel witch who had held dominion over the 
island ; and they, in gratitude, were his faithful servants ever 
after. 

Thus lived the duke and his daughter, seeing no other human 
being, pursuing together their studies and innocent amusements, 
till Miranda had become a beautiful young maiden. About this 
time it happened that the king of Naples, with his son, Prince Fer- 
dinand, and Antonio, duke of Milan, accompanied by Gonzalo, 
Prospero's kind friend, and many attendant courtiers, took voy- 
age together in a stately ship ; and as she approached the island, 
Prospero, informed by his art of her passengers, commanded his 
attendant elves to raise a great storm about the vessel, which cast 
the travellers, shipwrecked, on his shores. 

Ariel, chief of the aerial sprites, instructed by his master, led 
Prince Ferdinand at once, by his supernatural song, into the pres- 
ence of the duke and his daughter ; for Prospero had conceived 
the fine plan of revenging himself on the treacherous king of Na- 
ples, by causing his son to fall in love with Miranda, and make 
her his wife and future queen. His project succeeded : the young 
prince became enamored at first sight of the enchanting maiden, 
and invited her to be the partner of his throne. The rest of the 
shipwrecked party were not permitted to interrupt their love- 
making till their preferences were firmly established ; then Ariel 
was commanded to conduct the king of Naples and Antonio, with 
their servants, to the shelter and refreshment of Prospero's cave, 
where every thing was quickly explained : Antonio implored the 
forgiveness of his brother Prospero ; the Neapolitan king sane- 



MIRANDA. 49 

tioned the union of his son with Miranda ; and finally, the delicate 
Ariel accomplished his last task — that of accompanying the ship 
with gentle gales, which should waft her noble passengers to home 
and happiness. 



Miranda, the Admirable, as her name denotes, is a purely ideal 
creation of the poet's mind — Titania herself not more imbued with 
the essence of fairy-land. 

So spiritual, so ethereal is her organization, that it baffles all 
merely practical attempts to analyze or classify it ; to her most 
material beholder she is scarce more than an exquisite, magical 
illusion, which, if too boldly approached, a wave of some mystic 
wand will instantly dispel. 

In' body, mind, and spirit, Miranda is essentially virgin ; her 
grace, her beauty, her self, are as guiltless of any meretricious sug- 
gestion as in the hour when she was born : " society " is a sealed 
book to her innocent eyes — the world, a myth. Her quick sus- 
ceptibility to a love as pure as it is passionate seems the one only 
quality she possesses in common with her sisters ; she is the child 
of Nature and super-Nature — belonging to humanity, but a hu- 
manity so free from base alloy that it is but a step removed from 
the pure spiritual. 

The fact that she is a duke's daughter, and the affianced bride 
of a prince, does nothing toward humanizing Miranda : the duke 
is the legitimate magician-duke of fairy romance ; the prince, the 
invariable Prince Charming, whose intrepid devotion is rewarded 
by the hand of the enchanted beauty. 

Surrounded by all the witchery of a spell-bound home, minis- 
tered to by invisible spirits who rejoice to acknowledge her their 
mistress, charmed by strains of supernatural melody, isolated from 



50 MIRANDA. 

association or sympathy with all human beings save her father, 
who is, himself, less a man than a weird, powerful necromancer, 
Miranda exists apart, in our imagination — something less than god- 
dess, yet more than woman. 

There is no attempt to depict a beauty so ethereal that in the 
very process of description it would become materialized, and thus 
lose half its charm. But its effect upon all beholders is carefully re- 
produced ; and that alone sets one's fancy dreaming of all most 
beautiful " things of beauty," in heaven or on earth, to make up 
this ideal "joy forever." We perfectly sympathize with Ferdi- 
nand's salutation on first meeting her ; that which, addressed to 
any other woman, would have passed but as an amorous hyperbole, 
or a courtly phrase of the time, becomes, in its application to her, 
the expression of a bewitched conviction : 

Most sure, the goddess 
On whom these airs attend ! * * * * 
***** My prime request, 
Which I do last pronounce, is, O you wonder ! 
If you be maid or no ? 
. Mir. No wonder, sir ; 

But certainly a maid. 

And this is not simply the illusion of young and ardent eyes. 
Alonzo, king of Naples, exclaims on first seeing her at chess with 
his son : 

What is this maid, with whom thou wast at play ? 
Is she the goddess that hath severed us, 
And brought us thus together ? 

The dainty delicacy of the love-making scene, between Miranda 
and her lover, cannot be surpassed ; under her chaste influence, 
Ferdinand, the young gallant of a gay court, confessing himself to 






MIRANDA. 51 

have kept no fast at Pleasure's board, becomes, for the time at least, 
almost as pure in heart as she, and their love, resolved into a beau- 
tiful instinct, loses every gross attribute of passion. 

Ferdinand, by command of Prospero, is bearing logs — he 
" must remove some thousands of these logs, and pile them up, 
upon a sore injunction : " 



Mir. You look wearily. 

Mr. No, noble mistress ; 'tis fresh morning with me, 
When you are by, at night. I do beseech you, 
(Chiefly that I might set it in my prayers,) 
What is your name ? 

Mir. Miranda : — O my father 
I have broke your 'hest to say so ! 

Fer. Admired Miranda ! 

Indeed, the top of admiration — worth 
What's dearest to the world ! Full many a lady 
I have eyed with best regard, and many a time 
The harmony of their tongues hath into bondage 
Brought my too diligent ear ; for several virtues 
Have I liked several women — never any 
With so full soul but some defect in her 
Did quarrel with the noblest grace she owed, 
And put it to the foil. But you, O you, 
So perfect and so peerless, are created 
Of every creature's best ! 

Mir. I do not know 

One of my sex ! no woman's face remember, 
Save from my glass mine own ; nor have I seen 
More that I may call men, than you, good friend, 
And my dear father ; how features are abroad 
I am skill-less of. But, by my modesty, 
(The jewel in my dower,) I woidd not wish 
Any companion in the world but you ! 
Nor can imagination form a shape, 
Beside yourself, to like of. — But I prattle 
Something too wildly, and my father's precepts 
Therein forget. 



52 MIRANDA. 

Fer. I am, in my condition, 
A prince, Miranda — I do think, a king 
(I would not so !) ; and would no more endure 
This wooden slavery than I would suffer 
The flesh-fly blow my mouth. — Hear my soul speak : 
The very instant that I saw you, did 
My heart fly to your service ; there resides, 
To make me slave to it ; and for your sake 
Am I this patient log-man. 

Mir. Do you love me ? 

Fer. O heaven, O earth ! bear witness to this sound, 
And crown what I profess with kind event 
If I speak true ; if hollowly, invert 
What best is boded me to mischief! I, 
Beyond all limit of what else i' the world, 
Do love, prize, honor you ! 

Mir. I am a fool, 

To weep at what I am glad of. 

Fer. "Wherefore weep you ? 

Mir. At mine unworthiness, that dare not offer 
What I desire to give ; and much less take 
What I shall die to want. — But this is trifling , 
And all the more it seeks to hide itself, 
The bigger bulk it shows. Hence, bashful Cunning ! 
And prompt me, plain and holy Innocence ! 
I am your wife, if you will marry me ; 
If not, I'll die your maid : to be your fellow 
You may deny me ; but I'll be your servant 
Whether you will or no. 

Fer. My mistress, dearest, 

And I thus humble ever. 

Mir. My husband then ? 

Fer. Ay, with a heart as willing 
As bondage e'er of freedom : here's my hand ! 

Mir. And mine, with my heart in 't. And now, farewell 
Till half an hour hence. 

Fer. A thousand ! thousand ! 



DESDEMONA. 

Desdemona was the daughter and heiress of Brabautio, a Vene- 
tian senator. Othello, a famous Moorish general, being a friend 
of Brabautio, made frequent visits to his house ; and with no more 
studious wooing than the relation of his adventures and " hair- 
breadth 'scapes " in strange lands, did he win the love of the sena- 
tor's beautiful daughter. 

Desdemona, fearing the opposition of her father, who naturally 
wished to marry his child to some one of the many young nobles 
of Venice who were suitors for her hand, fled from her home by 
night, and became the Moor's wife. 

On that same night, Othello was ordered by the reigning duke 
to set out at once to war against the Turks in the isle of Cyprus, 
whither his bride was permitted to follow him. On this expedi- 
tion Othello had selected Cassio, a young Florentine nobleman, 
true friend to himself and Desdemona, to be his lieutenant, a post 
greatly desired by Iago, an old follower of Othello, who had re- 
ceived the appointment of " ancient " instead. Iago accompanied 
Othello in this capacity, while his wife, Emilia, attended upon the 
lady Desdemona as waiting-gentlewoman. 

From the first, Iago had conceived the diabolic idea of prompt- 
ing Othello to suspect his wife's intimacy with young Cassio, as 



54 DESDEMONA. 

well to avenge his disappointed ambition, as from a suspicion of 
the Moor's previous relations with Emilia — but above all, to gratify 
the taste for treacherous plotting which was part of his detestable 
temper. His stratagems were admh-ably contrived for the victim 
they were intended to ensnare, though too transparent for a less 
generous and more suspicious nature than that of the passionate 
Othello. On the first night of the Moor's arrival in the island of 
Cyprus, Iago artfully prevailed upon Cassio to drink to excess — 
whence a brawl, ending in Cassio's disgraceful suspension from his 
military office. Nothing could be more natural, nor, as it proved, 
more fatal, to the tender Desdemona than to exert her influence 
with her neAvly-wedded lord to procure the pardon and reinstate- 
ment of their mutual friend, " Michael Cassio, that came a-wooing 
with him" — on which artless importunity the wily Iago ingeniously 
led Othello to put the vilest construction. 

Desdemona possessed a curiously wrought handkerchief, most 
precious to her as the first gift of her husband, and which she 
superstitiously believed to be endowed with magic virtue. Iago 
bribed his wife to steal this dainty trifle from her mistress ; and, 
having dropped it in Cassio's bed-chamber, he persuaded Othello 
that Desdemona had presented it to the young lieutenant as a 
token of her guilty preference. Such innocent trifles did this ma- 
lignant spirit construe to his own vile meaning, till the Moor, mad- 
dened with jealous doubts of his wife's chastity, smothered her in 
her bed. 

After the dreadful deed had been done, Othello received 
abundant proof of Desdemona's innocence from Emilia — whom 
Iago killed on the spot for betraying him ; and, stabbing himself, the 
Moor, so miserably deceived, died on the body of his lovely victim. 



DESDEMONA. 55 

The type of all gentle and refined beauty — " O, the world hath 
not a sweeter creature ! " — Desdemona by her rare simplicity, her 
childlike artlessness of character, wins her way to the hearts of all 
who have conned the story of her woes and mourned her cruel 
fate. 

In our own mind we class her naturally with Miranda and 
Ophelia ; but she is less purely ideal than either of these ; her 
dramatic condition differs from theirs in being simply domestic ; 
though highly picturesque, it is dependent for its interest on no 
more romantic accessories than are afforded by the privacy of a 
sumptuous household, to the skilful management of which — not- 
withstanding that she was " an admirable musician," and of " high 
and plenteous wit and invention" — she does not scorn to devote 
a considerable portion of her time. With whatsoever of intense 
effects her married life is produced," herself is never part of them — 
she, indeed, constitutes their principal figure, but she is never in- 
volved in them, never understands them ; her identity is preserved 
intact throughout. 

Subordination, in thought and word and act, is the prominent 
feature of Desdemona's character : not simply the non-resisting hu- 
mility of a weak, spiritless nature, but that honorable submission 
to one having authority (whether God, king, father, or husband) 
which, then, as in the later day of English Margaret More, formed 
an essential part of the education of the gently bred, only less im- 
portant than religion itself, or, rather, included in that. 

That Desdemona is not necessarily tame because her " spirit, 
so still and quiet," has been chastened by a graceful discipline, is 
proved by the boldness with which she takes her fate into her own 
hands when the occasion demands prompt action. 

Disdainful of the "wealthy, cm-led darlings of her nation," she 
hearkens to and loves the gallant Moor, to whom " the flinty and 



56 DESDEMONA. 

steel couch of war " was " thrice-driven bed of down ; " and with 
the courageous delicacy of a true woman, she discovers her love to 
him who, last of all, would dream of winning it : 

She thanked me ; 
And bade me, if I had a friend that lov'd her, 
I should but teach him how to tell my story, 
And that would woo her ; 

and they elope and are married. 

Again, no woman of meagre intellectual endowments — and as 
such Desdemona is too often regarded — or without sufficient of 
what we term character, could, with such force and graceful logic, 
have defended the step she had taken, in the presence of an august 
senate, which, of itself, would have overwhelmed the soft, timorous 
Desdemona as she exists in the popular imagination. 

The reader will recollect that, on their wedding-night, Othello 
is brought before the Senate to answer the charge of Brabantio, 
of having procured the affections of his daughter by some unlaw- 
ful means ; Desdemona being summoned, her father appeals to 
her: 



Come hither, gentle mistress ; 
Do you perceive, in all this noble company, 
Where most you owe obedience ? 

Des. My noble father, 

I do perceive here a divided duty : 
To you I am bound for life and education ; 
My life and education both do learn me 
How to respect you ; you are the lord of duty — 
I am hitherto your daughter : But here's my husband ; 
And so much duty as my mother show'd 
To you, preferring you before her father, 
So much I challenge that I may profess 
Due to the Moor, my lord. 



DESDEMONA. 57 

And how full of eloquence, of the unfaltering pride of an honor- 
able wife, is her petition to the duke to be allowed to follow her 
husband to Cyprus : 

That I did love the Moor, to live with him, 

My downright violence and scorn of fortunes 

May trumpet to the world : my heart's subdued 

Even to the very quality of my lord : 

I saw Othello's visage in his mind ; 

And to his honors, and his valiant parts, 

Did I my soul and fortunes consecrate. 

So that, dear lords, if I be left behind, 

A moth of peace, and he go to the war, 

The rites for which I love him are bereft me, 

And I a heavy interim shall support 

By his dear absence : Let me go with him. 

In Desdemona's passion for Othello we have a fair example of 
the proverbial tenacity of an Italian woman's love, however sud- 
denly, or for whatever freak of fancy, it may have been conceived. 
No wrong, no outrage to her tender devotion, can for a moment 
alienate her loyal heart; while their honeymoon is yet high in 
the heavens, Othello treats her with " strange unquietness," with 
petulant impatience ; but her generous fondness readily finds ex- 
cuse for him : 

Nay, we must think, men are not gods ; 
Nor of them look for sucb observances 
As fit the bridal. — Beshrew me much, Emilia, 
I was (unhandsome warrior as I am,) 
Arraigning his unkindness with my soul ; 
But now I find I had suborn'd the witness, 
And he's indited falsely. 

He tries upon her unoffending head all the fantastic tricks of 
his half-crazed wits ; he even strikes her — her of such tender 



58 DESDEMONA. 

beauty, such careful nurture ; yet no more bitter reproach, escapes 
her injured heart than these patient words to Iago, to whom she 
has recourse in her afflicted strait : 



Those that do teach young babes 
Do it with gentle means, and easy tasks : 
He might have chid me so ; for, in good faith, 
I am a child to chiding : 



— concluding the interview with an appeal so touching as to move 
any but a fiend, or an Iago ■ 

O good Iago, 
What shall I do to win my lord again ? 
Good friend, go to him ; for, by this light of heaven, 
I know not how I lost him. Here I kneel : — 
If e'er my will did trespass 'gainst his love, 
Either in discourse, or thought, or actual deed, 
Or that mine eyes, mine ears, or any sense, 
Delighted them in any other form ; 
Or that I do not yet, and ever did, 
And ever will, — though he do shake me off 
To beggarly divorcement, — love him dearly, 
Comfort forswear me ! TJnkindness may do much ; 
And his unkinduess may defeat my life, 
But never taint my love. 

There is nothing in all Shakspeare, to our mind, more affecting 
than the final night-scenes in this moving tragedy : the half-pres- 
cient sadness of the victim ; her request, full of poetic pathos, to 
Emilia, to lay on her bed her wedding sheets, and, if she should 
die, to shroud her in one of them ; the chanting of an old song 
which she had heard, long back in her childhood, sung by her 
mother's maid, who died of love — are all, from their sweet tinge 
of superstition, most touchingly effective. In her conversation 



DESDEMONA. 59 

with Emilia, while disrobing for bed — that bed which is so soon 
to be her bier — the extreme delicacy of Desdemoua's mind, the 
spotless chastity, which cannot be persuaded of the existence of a 
grossness so foreign to itself, is strikingly contrasted with the 
loose opinions, the coarse good sense, and the easy virtue of Iago's 
wife ; it is the crowning beauty of her blameless life. 









1 

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$!&% 




ROSALIND. 

Rosalind was the only child of the reigning Duke of a French 
province; while she was yet almost an infant, Frederick, a 
younger brother of her father, usurped his throne, and drove him 
and his followers into exile. Duke Frederick had also a young 
daughter, Celia ; and that she might not pine in her new home, he 
detained his niece, Rosalind, to be her playmate. In Celia's own 
beautiful words : they 

* * * * » Slept together, 
Rose at an instant, learn'd, play'd, eat together ; 
And wheresoe'er they went, like Juno's swans, 
Still they went coupled and inseparable." 

Thus were they reared in the ducal palace as sisters ; till one 
day, grown to be lovely maidens, they witnessed in company the 
then favorite pastime at court, of wrestling, and Rosalind fell in love 
with one of the competitors, — a tall, elegant young stripling, who 
came off victor from the contest. But unhappily for the princess 
Rosalind, the handsome stranger proved to be Orlando, son of 
Sir Rowland de Bois, who had been in his lifetime a fast adherent 
to the deposed Duke; and this so aroused the anger of Duke 
Frederick, that he not only dismissed the young man, but ordered 
Rosalind, who had displeased him by her fearless expressions of 



62 ROSALIND. 

sympathy with the son of her father's best friend, to quit the palace 
at once, and seek the exiled Duke's retreat — the forest of Arden. 

Celia's prayers to her father in behalf of her cousin were in 
vain ; so, true to her sisterly affection for Kosalind, she determined 
to share her banishment. The better to conceal their flight, they 
set out on their journey disguised as peasants ; and to insure them- 
selves against annoyance, Eosalind, who was the taller and more 
courageous of the two, assumed the attire of a country lad, calling 
herself Ganymede; while Celia, the pretty shepherdess, took the 
name of Aliena, sister to Ganymede. 

With but few adventures they came to the forest of Arden, 
wherein Orlando had also taken refuge from a cruel, jealous bro- 
ther, who sought his life. Orlando, ardent and romantic, had by 
no means received unmoved the delicate sympathy of the fair Eo- 
salind ; on the contrary, he had cherished the memory of it so 
tenderly, that before long his love for her became as absorbing as 
it was hopeless. To the great marvel of our princesses, as they 
continued their journey through the forest, they found the bushes 
hung with amorous sonnets in praise of Rosalind's beauty, and the 
young trees eloquent with her name, cut in their tender bark ; but 
after a while the mystery was joyfully explained, to one at least, 
by the appearance of Orlando. 

With the coquetry of a true woman, certain that she was be- 
loved, Rosalind, still disguised, amused herself by teasing her lover 
into a frenzy of passion, " piquing and soothing him by turns." 

The gentle Celia also found a lover in the now repentant Oliver, 
Orlando's brother ; and finally the nuptials of the two couples, sanc- 
tioned and blessed by tLe good Duke, were celebrated in the grand 
old forest. 

As if nothing should be withheld, necessary to complete the 
happiness of their wedding-day, a messenger arrived with the 



ROSALIND. 63 

news that Duke Frederick had been brought suddenly to repent 
of his injustice to his elder brother, and that, converted from 
wickedness and the world, he had put on a religious life — relin- 
quishing the crown to the brows that should wear it of right, and 
restoring all their lands to them that were exiled. 



Eosalind, of all her "infinitely various" sisterhood, is most 
universally the pet, as combining in her single person qualities 
which appeal to all classes of men and women. She has wit to 
charm the intellectual ; a fund of lively romance for the sympa- 
thetic ; fresh beauty, and a hearty, ringing vitality, for the merely 
material ; and store of tender, graceful, womanly virtues to delight 
the popular heart — which, certainly, on such a subject, must be 
esteemed infallible. 

Notwithstanding that the princess Rosalind was born and bred 
among the formal etiquettes of a court, and accustomed to the 
sumptuous luxury of ducal palaces, it is plain that she has pined 
and wilted in so artificial an atmosphere, till, casting it like a tire- 
some garment, she bounds, full of ardent, exuberant life, into the 
green midst of Arden. We cannot easily recognize our Eosalind 
in the languid court-lady of legitimate caprices and vapors, who 
" shows more nrirth than she is mistress of; " nor ever in the meek 
victim of whom her uncle, the duke, draws this melancholy picture, 
impossible to a true conception of such a very madcap of animal 
spirits : 

* * * * Her smoothness, 

Her very silence, and her patience, 

Speak to the people, and they pity her. 

Rosalind smooth, and. silent, and patient — above all, pitied ! 



64 ROSALIND. 

Is there, in that, a trace of her spirited, self-reliant, voluble self? 
Could we not far more readily believe, of our gallant little Gany- 
mede, that she had restored his lawful throne to her father by 
sheer dint of her wits, and her sure trick of reaching the hearts 
of " the people," than that they had simply looked on and pitied 
her? 

Rosalind's character is made up of apparently irreconcilable at- 
tributes : she is endowed with exquisite sensibility, yet with ready, 
dazzling wit ; she is intensely romantic, but without a sigh of sen- 
tinientalisni ; her heart is brimful of tenderness, while she con- 
ceals its dearest passion beneath a saucy, playful raillery, which 
would be giddy, were it not for its good sense, and acute insight 
into human nature. The more Orlando mopes, and grows " deject 
and wretched," under the teasing treatment of the fascinating 
Ganymede, the more ingenious is she in the contrivance of her 
pretty tortures, which every now and then reveal charming glimpses 
of the love-full heart under all. 

The dialogues between Orlando and Ganymede, wherein she 
personates his lady-love, sparkle throughout, replete with playful 
coquetry, arch libels on " the fair Rosalind," and flashes of humor so 
keen that they have become proverbial — " familiar in our mouths 
as household words :" 



Ros. Now tell me how long you would have her after 
you have possessed her. 

Orl. Forever, and a day. 

Mos. Say a day without the ever. No, no, Orlando ; 
men are April when they woo, December when they 
wed. Maids are May, when they are maids ; but the sky 
changes when they are wives. I will be more jealous of 
thee than a Barbary cock-pigeon over his hen; more 
clamorous than a parrot against rain ; more new-fangled 
than an ape ; more giddy in my desires than a monkey. 



ROSALIND. 65 

I will weep for nothing, like Diana in the fountain ; and 
I will do' that when you are disposed to be merry. I 
will laugh like a hyen, and that when thou art inclined 
to sleep. 

Orl. But will my Rosalind do so ? 

Bos. By my life, she will do as I do ! 

Bos. There is none of my uncle's marks upon you : he 
taught me how to know a man in love. * 

Orl. What were his marks ? 

Bos. A lean cheek— which you have not ; a blue eye 
and sunken— which you have not; an unquestionable 
spirit — which you have not. ****** Then 
your hose should be ungarter'd, your bonnet unhanded, 
your sleeve unbuttoned, your shoe untied, and every 
thing about you demonstrating a careless desolation. 

Love is merely a madness ; and, I tell you, deserves 
as well a dark house and a whip as madmen do ; and 
the reason why they are not so punished and cured is, 
that the lunacy is so ordinary that the whippers are in 
love too. 

***** Men have died from time to time, 
and worms have eaten them— but not for love. 

Break an hour's promise in love ! He that will divide 
a minute into a thousand parts, and break but a part of the 
thousandth part of a minute in the affairs of love, it may 
be said of him that Cupid hath clapp'd him o' the 
shoulder, but I warrant him heart-whole. 

Farewell, monsieur traveller! Look you lisp, and 
wear strange suits ; disable all the benefits of your own 
country ; be out of love with your nativity, and almost 
chide God for making you that countenance you are ; or 
I will scarce think you have swam in a gondola. 

But to do her wit and ready repartee full justice, we should be 

9 



00 ROSALIND. 

compeEed to transcribe half the play ; let us pass then from what 
Rosalind says, to what is said of her. 

Of her person no descriptive passages are given, save as she 
appears in the character of Ganymede; of these, that of Phebe, a 
shepherdess, who becomes enamored of the sprightly boy, is best 
known: 

Think not I love him, though I ask for him ; 

'Tis but a peevish boy — yet he talks well. 

But what care I for words ? — Yet words do well, 

When he that speaks them pleases those that hear. 

It is a pretty youth — not very pretty ; 

But sure he's proud ; — and yet his pride becomes him. 

He'll make a proper man. The best thing in him 

Is his complexion : and faster than his tongue 

Did make offence, his eye did heal it up. 

He is not tall — yet for his years lie's tall. 

His leg is but so-so ; — and yet 'tis well. 

There was a pretty redness in his lip — 

A little riper and more lusty red 

Than that mix'd in his cheek ; 'twas just the difference 

Betwixt the constant red and mingled damask. 

And Oliver says of her : 

The boy is fair, 

Of female favor ; and bestows himself 

Like a ripe sister. * * * 

There is nothing of Rosalind more Rosalindy than her " Con- 
juration " in the Epilogue : 

* * * « My way is to conjure you ; and I'll be- 
gin with the women.— rl charge you, O Women, for the 
love you bear to men, to like as much of this play as 
pleases them. And so I charge you, O Men, for the love 
you bear to women (as I perceive by your simpering, 






ROSALIND. 67 

none of you hate them), that between you and the wo- 
men the play may please. If T were a woman, I would 
kiss as many of you as had beards that pleased me, com- 
plexions that liked me, and breaths that I defied not ; 
and, I am sure, as many as have good beards, or good 
faces, or sweet breaths, will, for my kind offer, when I 
make curt'sy, bid me Farewell. 

Though, properly, it is the actor, speaking for himself (the 
vronien being played by boys in Shakspeare's time), who says, 
" If I were a woman," Rosalind, speaking for Ganymede, could say 
nothing more characteristic. 



CELIA. 

The pensive sweetness of Celia's character is too apt to pass 
unappreciated, outshone as it is by the brilliancy of her gifted 
cousin, Rosalind. Yet she is, in fact, scarcely inferior in personal 
or mental endowments — she is only more quiet ; her wit would be 
distinguished, were it not in direct juxtaposition with the pyro- 
technic displays of the rattling Rosalind ; and that her heart is 
equally full of tender susceptibility, is proved by her almost in- 
stantaneous love for Oliver, of which her cousin says : 



There was never any thing so sudden. * * * 

For your brother and my sister no sooner met, but they 
looked ; no sooner looked, but they loved ; no sooner 
loved, but they sighed; no sooner sighed, but they 
asked one another the reason ; no sooner knew the 
reason, but they sought the remedy : and in these de- 
grees have they made a pair of stairs to marriage. 

The heroic devotion of her nature is beautifully manifest in her 
friendship for her cousin, " dearer than the natural bond of sis- 
ters " — a friendship so complete that it ignores all selfish consider- 
ations, to be true to its own high ideal. Even before Rosalind is 



70 C E L I A . 

banished the court, Celia lias resolved, if it should ever he in hei 
power, to restore the throne to its rightful heir, her cousin : 

You know my father hath no child but I, nor none is 
like to have ; and, truly, when, he dies, thou shalt be his 
heir : for what he hath taken away from thy father per- 
force, I will render thee again in affection — by mine 
honor, I will ! and when I break that oath, let me turn 
monster. Therefore, my sweet Rose, my dear Rose, be 
merry. 

And her pleading to the duke is unsurpassed for simple, natural 
tenderness : 



If she be a traitor, 
Why so am I : we still have slept together, 
Rose at an instant, learn'd, play'd, eat together ; 
And wheresoe'er we went, like Juno's swans, 
Still we went coupled, and inseparable. 

DulceF. ****** 
Thou art a fool : she robs thee of thy name ; 
And thou wilt show more bright, and seem more virtuous, 
When she is gone. Then open not thy lips ; 
Firm and irrevocable is my doom 
Which I have pass'd upon her ; she is banish'd. 

Gel. Pronounce that sentence then on me, my liege ; 
I cannot live out of her company. 

Celia's friendship for Rosalind exceeds that which she receives 
in return, from the very difference in their characters. Celia has 
far less vitality ; she yields to the potent influence of Rosalind as 
a matter of course, confessing herself absolutely dependent upon 
her companion. 

Rosalind calmly contemplates the necessity of leaving Celia for- 
ever ; Celia tells her father, after he has pronounced his cruel sen- 
tence, that she " cannot live out of her company ; " and left alone 



71 



with her cousin, having at once resolved to share her exile, 
says to her : 



Pr'ythee, be cheerful : kuow'st thou not the duke 
Hath banisk'd me, his daughter ? 

Mos. That he hath not. 

Gel. No ? hath not ? Rosalind lacks then the love 
Which teacheth thee that thou and I am one. 
Shall we be sunder'd ? shall we part, sweet girl ? 
No ; let my father seek another heir. 
Therefore devise with me, how we may fly, . 

Whither to go, and what to bear with us ; 
And do not seek to take your change upon you, 
To bear your griefs yourself, and leave me out ; 
For, by this heaven, now at our sorrows pale, 
Say what thou canst, I'll go along with thee ! 

The text affords no description of Celia's person except 
Aliena, and contrasted with Ganymede : 

***** Tlie woman low, 
And browner than her brother. * * * 



BEATRICE. 

Beatrice was the niece of Leonato, Governor of Messina, and 
the beloved companion of his daughter Hero, with whom she lived 
in her uncle's palace. Certain gentlemen of rank, on their way- 
home from a war in which their valor had shone conspicuously, 
tarried a while in Messina, as guests of the worthy governor. 
Among these were Don Pedro, Prince of Arragon ; Claudio, a 
Florentine nobleman, friend to the prince ; and Benedick of Pa- 
dua, a wild, light-hearted lord, as brave as he was witty. 

These gentlemen had visited Messina before the war began; 
and during their sojourn at the palace, the governor's sharp-witted 
niece had amused herself with not very amiable raillery at Bene- 
dick's expense, while Hero and Claudio had been forced to part 
just as they discovered that they were almost necessary to each 
other's happiness. Now their several " occupations " were re- 
newed : Don Pedro procured the governor's consent to Claudio's 
marriage with the gentle Hero, and Benedick and Beatrice laughed 
at love, and waged a fiercer war of words than ever. 

As a merry mode of passing the time which must elapse before 
the day fixed for the nuptials, Don Pedro suggested to his gentle- 
men the practical joke of making Beatrice and Benedick — the two 



74 BEATRICE. 

sworn foes — fall in love with each other ; and at once they con- 
trived a plan, which soon succeeded to perfection. 

Meanwhile, however, a less amiable plot was hatching, to over- 
throw the fond hopes of Hero and her affianced husband. Don 
John, a bastard brother of Don Pedro, and full of malignant spite 
against him, hired Borachio, a low fellow, to put aside, by a 
scandalous proceeding, this marriage, in which Don Pedro's honor 
and interest were so deeply engaged. 

Borachio, being a suitor to Margaret, the lady Hero's waiting- 
woman, persuaded her to listen to his wooing from her mistress's 
bed-chamber at midnight ; and the night before the wedding-day, 
Claudio and Don Pedro were brought by Don John to witness 
this assignation, which convinced them of Hero's infidelity. 

Next morning, in the church, before the friar who would have 
married them, before all the noble company assembled, Claudio 
publicly repudiated his bride — Don Pedro bearing testimony to 
her unworthiness — and so left the unhappy lady in a deadly swoon 
at his feet. Following the friar's advice, Leonato proclaimed his 
daughter dead, meaning to avenge the insult if she should prove to 
have been slandered, or to immure her in a convent, if it should 
indeed be as the two gentlemen had declared. That very day, 
however, a watchman brought Borachio before the governor, 
charging that he had overheard the fellow talking to a comrade 
of the vile plot against the lady Hero. The confession of Bora- 
chio at once cleared the fair fame of the injured bride from all 
suspicion; her lover, Lord Claudio, was inconsolable for her loss, 
nor could he forgive himself the rashness which had ruined his 
dearest hopes. Leonato demanded of him, as a reparation to 
the lady's family, that he should take to wife his young niece, 
" almost the copy of her that was dead ; " and Claudio, indifferent 
now as to his fate, consented. What was his amazement, his joy, 



BEATRICE. 75 

to find in the masked lady who awaited him at the altar his own 
beloved Hero, on whose grave he had wept so many heart-wrung 
tears. Too happy to ask for more, he was content with the expla- 
nation vouchsafed him by Leonato : 

She died, my lord, but whiles her slander lived. 

They were married ; and at the same time the formidable Bea- 
trice gave her hand to Benedick, on which occasion there was such 
rejoicing and festivity in celebration of the two weddings as had 
never before been known in Messina. 



If this sharp-tongued young lady serve no better purpose to 
the humanity of this day and generation, at least she saves it from 
one graceless distinction, by proving in her own person that the 
" fast " woman is by no means a modern " institution : " not that 
we would detract from the perfected specimens of our own time, 
by comparison with this rudimentary example ; but we contend 
that she possesses all the qualities necessary to a successful as- 
sumption of the character — her education, and the manners of 
the time, alone impede her. 

Beatrice, like many another woman before and since, is the 
slave of a pert tongue ; her intellect, though quick, is not strong 
enough to keep her vanity in subjection, and the consciousness of 
possessing in a ready wit the power of discomfiting others, proves 
a successful snare for her good taste and all the graceful effects of 
her gentle breeding. It is only in situations so inspiring as to 
compel her for the moment to forget her flippant affectations, that 
she appears as Nature made her — a spirited, generous, clever 
woman. 



76 BEATRICE. 

One is apt to liken Beatrice to Kosalind ; yet their only points 
of resemblance consist of dramatic situations somewhat similar, and 
the distinguishiBg endowment of wit. As to the quality of this 
gift, however, the two ladies so differ that it can scarcely consti- 
tute a characteristic in common between them. The wit of Bea- 
trice, brilliant as it is, is but the dazzle of words — it has no imagi- 
native element, none of the half-playful pathos which renders that 
of Bosalind so charming ; the two compare as the cold, artificial 
glitter of a diamond with the cordial warmth of sunshine. To use 
Benedick's own words — and he, as chief sufferer, should be ex- 
cellent authority — Beatrice " speaks poignards, and every word 
stabs ; " while, in the poetic* simile of Mrs. Jameson, " the wit of 
Rosalind bubbles up and sparkles like the living fountain, refresh- 
ing all around." 

Beatrice has none of Rosalind's romantic susceptibility, no 
passion ; her love for Benedick we can never regard as more than 
an experimental freak ; though, to do her justice, her soliloquy in 
the garden, where, concealed, she has overheard that Benedick 
loves her, is creditable alike to her heart and her good sense : 

What fire is in mine ears ? Can this be true ? 

Stand I condemn'd for pride and scorn so much ? 
Contempt, farewell ! and maiden pride, adieu ! 

No glory lives behind the back of such. 
And, Benedick, love on ; I will requite thee — 

Taming my wild heart to thy loving hand ; 
If thou dost love, my kindness shall incite thee 

To bind our loves up in a holy band : 
For others say thou dost deserve ; and I 
Believe it better than reportingly. 

It seems scarcely fair to select purposely exaggerated descrip- 
tions of Beatrice, by her cousin Hero ; but as caricatures are often 



BEATRICE. 11 

the best portraits, so we cannot fail to draw from these severe re- 
ports a correct impression of their subject : 



Nature never framed a woman's heart 
Of prouder stivff than that of Beatrice : 
Disdain and scorn ride sparkling in her eyes, 
Misprising what they look on ; and her wit 
Values itself so highly, that to her 
All matter else seems weak. She cannot love, 
Nor take no shape nor project of affection — 
She is so self-endear'd. 



* * * * I never yet saw man, . 
How wise, how noble, young, how rarely featured, 
But she would spell him backward : if fair-faced, 
She'd swear the gentleman should be her sister ; 
If black, why, Nature, drawing of an antic, 
Made a foul blot ; if tall, a lance ill-headed ; 
If low, an agate very vilely cut ; 
If speaking, why, a vane blown with all winds ; 
If silent, why, a block moved with none. 
So turns she every man the wrong side out, 
And never gives to truth and virtue that 
Which simpleness and merit purchaseth. 
• Urs. Sure, sure, such carping is not commendable. 

Hero. No : not to be so odd, and from all fashions, 
As Beatrice is, cannot be commendable. 
But who dare tell her so ? If I should speak, 
She'd mock me into air ; oh, she would laugh me 
Out of myself, press me to death with wit. 

It would appear that Don Pedro's plot found her in a happy 
hour, more than half-prepared for its consummation, if we may- 
judge from a little scene where Hero is bestowed upon Claudio by 
her father, after which ceremony the loud vivacity of Beatrice is 
for the first time, slightly overcast by genuine emotion : 



78 BEATRICE. 

Beat. Good Lord, for alliance ! — Thus goes every one 
to the world* but I, and I am sun-burned ; I may sit in 
a corner, and cry — Heigh-ho ! for a husband. 

******** 

D. Pedro. Will you have me, lady ? 

Beat. No, my lord — unless I might have another for 
working-days : your grace is too costly to wear every 
day. But, I beseech your grace, pardon me ; I was born 
to speak all mirth, and no matter. 

D. Pedro. Your silence most oifends me, and to be 
merry best becomes you ; for, out of question, you were 
born in a merry hour. 

Beat. No, sure, my lord — my mother cry'd ; but then 
there was a star danced, and under that was I born. — 
Cousins, God give you joy ! 

But however the gratuitous impertinence and unseemly for- 
wardness of Beatrice may jar with one's fine ideas of a lady, she 
nobly redeems herself by her chivalrous defence of her cousin 
Hero, on the occasion of her cruel disgrace ; her hearty, clear- 
headed 

Oh, on my sold, my cousin is belied ! 

in the face of her uncle's conviction of his daughter's shame, and 
Benedick's amazed suspicion, is worth whole volleys of her mur- 
derous wit. 

The love-scene, immediately succeeding the "scene" in the 
chapel, is as characteristic as it is comic ; and though we may ques- 
tion the sincerity of Beatrice's love, in that she demands a test so 
fraught with danger for her lover, we cannot deny our admiration 
to such variant championship in the cause of maligned innocence : 

Bene. I do love nothing in the world so well as you ; 
Is not that strange ? 

Beat. As strange as the tiling I know not. It were as 
possible for me to say I loved nothing so well as you. 

* To go to Ike world — a cant phrase, meaning to get married. 



BEATRICE. 79 

But believe me not ; and yet I lie not ; I confess nothing, 
nor I deny nothing. — I am sorry for rny cousin. 

Bene. By my sword, Beatrice, thou lovest me ! 

******** 

Beat. Why then, God forgive me ! 

Bene. What offence, sweet Beatrice? 

Beat. You have staid me in a happy hour; I was 
about to protest I loved you. 

Bene. And do it, with all thy heart. 

Beat. I love you with so much of my heart that none 
is left to protest. 

Bene. Come, bid me do any thing for thee. 

Beat. Kill Claudio. 

Bene. Ha ! not for the wide world. 

Beat. You kill me to deny it : Farewell. 

******** 

Bene. Is Claudio thine enemy ? 

Beat. Is he not approved in the height a villain, that 
hath slandered, scorned, dishonored my kinswoman ? — 
O, that I were a man ! — What ! bear her in hand until 
they come to take hands ; and then, with public accusa- 
tion, uncovered slander, unmitigated rancor — O God, 
that I were a man ! I would eat his heart in the mar- 
ket-place. 

Bene. Hear me, Beatrice ; — 

Beat. Talk with a man out at a window ? — a proper 
saying. 

Bene. Nay but, Beatrice ; — 

Beat. Sweet Hero ! — she is wronged, she is slandered, 
she is undone. 

Bene. Beat — 

Beat. Princes, and counties ? Surely, a princely tes- 
timony, a goodly count-confect, a sweet gallant, surely ! 
O that I were a man for his sake ! or that I had any 
friend would be a man for my sake ! But manhood is 
melted into courtesies, valor into compliment, and men 
are only turned into tongue, and trim ones too : he is 
now as valiant as Hercules that only tells a lie, and 
swears it. — I cannot be a man with wishing, therefore I 
will die a woman with grieving. 







I 



HERO. 

In point of romantic interest and dramatic situation, Hero 
is undoubtedly the leading character in Much Ado about Nothing, 
although, adopting the popular appreciation, we have conferred 
the distinction of " first lady " on her cousin Beatrice — not the first 
time, by the by, that loud and persistent vanity has succeeded in 
usurping the honorable place belonging to modest, graceful excel- 
lence. 

. A rare chasteness of thought and person is plainly the trait 
in Hero's character which expresses itself most distinctly in the 
affairs of her daily life ; and in this particular she affords a lively 
contrast to her cousin's inherent vulgarity. Her emotions are as 
still as they are deep — her words few ; yet, that she can express 
herself well on occasion, is attested by her conversation with Ur- 
sula, designed to be overheard by Beatrice, in which hef caustic 
description of that flippant young woman is quite equal to many 
of her renowned sallies ; no wonder that Beatrice issues from her 
concealment with " fire in her ears." 

The readiness with which this "maiden, never bold" enters 
into the plot for catching her cousin's heart — " if so be that she 
11 



82 HERO. 

have such a thing about her" — as well as the admirable manner in 
which she plays her part, proves that Hero, with all her quiet 
dignity, entertains no small relish for fun,«and that she is far from 
lacking in the healthy vivacity befitting her youth and happy 
circumstance. Her reply to Don Pedro, when he proposes her 
share in the merry conspiracy, is as characteristic as il is un- 
hesitating : 

I will do any modest office, my lord,,, to help my 
cousin to a good husband. 

It is noticeable that in the repartee — coarse even for the 
women of Shakspeare's time — bandied by the less fastidious 
tongues of her rattle-brain cousin and her gentlewoman, she 
never takes part, unless to repel some direct attack upon herself, 
with a 

Fye upon thee ! Art not ashamed ? 

— and that, too, with no affectation of prudery ; her delicacy 
is as virgin as Desdemona's, that very snow-drop among 
women. 

This quality is beautifully displayed in the church, also, 
whither she has been led by her " new-trothed lord " — to be made 
a wife, she fondly believes ; but finds herself, instead, suddenly 
forsworn, and charged with that of which her pure mind has no 
conception. The simple words of incredulous amazement with 
which she at first receives her lover's violent accusations, re- 
mind one of the majestic Hermione on an occasion somewhat 
similar : 

Claud. Out on thy seeming ! I will write against it : 
You seem to me as Dian in her orb, 
As chaste as is the bud ere it be blown : 



HERO. 83 

But you are more intemperate in your blood 
Than Venus, or those pamper'd animals 
That rage in savage sensuality. 

Hero. Is my lord well, that he doth speak so wide ? 

We can far more easily forgive Claudio, in. the full tide of 
youth and passion, his suspicions of his mistress — particularly as he 
had " assisted " at the chamber-window scene — than Leonato his 
ready conviction of his daughter's guilt ; but we accord a grateful 
memorial, for this fair lady's sake, to the good priest, whose words 
of wisdom befit the sanctity of his calling and the purity of his 
heart : 

Friar. Hear me a little — 
For I have only been silent so long, 
And given way unto this course of fortune, 
By noting of the lady ; I have mark'd 
A thousand blushing apparitions start 
Into her face, a thousand innocent shames 
In angel whiteness bear away those blushes ; 
And in her eye there hath appear'd a fire, 
To burn the errors that these princes hold 
Against her maiden truth : — Call me a fool , 
Trust not my reading, nor my observations, 
Which with experimental zeal doth warrant 
The tenor of my book ; trust not my ^e, 
My reverence, calling, nor divinity, 
If this sweet lady lie not guiltless here 
Under some biting error. 



Your daughter here the princes left for dead ; 
Let her awhile be secretly kept in, 
And publish it that she is dead indeed ; 



So will it fare with Claudio : 
When he shall hear she died upon his words, 
The idea of her life shall sweetly creep 



84 HERO. 

Into his study of imagination ; 

And every lovely organ of her life 

Shall come apparell'd in more precious habit, 

More moving-delicate, and full of life, 

Into the eye and prospect of his soul, 

Than when she liv'd indeed. 

Of Hero's person we have only a few hints : she was certainly 
of low stature, much less tall than her cousin Beatrice, for Bene- 
dick styles her " Leonato's short daughter ; " and if it be not haz- 
ardous to take this merry lord's word on so grave an issue, we may 
gather from him a more distinct personification— always remem- 
bering that he is already half in love, in his madcap way, with 
Beatrice, and would be therefore likely, in comparing them, to 
disparage Hero : 

Claud. Benedick, didst thou note the daughter of 
Signior Leonato ? 
^ Bene. I noted her not ; but I looked on her. 

Claud. Is she not a modest young lady ? 

Bene. Do you question me, as an honest man should 
do, for my simple true judgment ? or would you have 
me speak after my custom, as being a professed tyrant 
to their sex ? 

Claud. No, I ]K*ay thee speak in sober judgment. 

Bene. Why, i' faith, methinks she is too low for a high 
praise, too brown for a fair praise, and too little for a 
great praise. Only this commendation I can afford her : 
that were she other than she is, she were unhandsome ; 
and being no other but as she is, I do not like her. 



Claud. In mine eye, she is the sweetest lady that 
ever I looked on. 

Bene. I can see yet without spectacles, and I see no 
such matter ; there's her cousin, an she were not pos- 
sessed with a fury, exceeds her as much in beauty as the 
first of May doth the last of December. 



HERO. 85 

Be this as it may, we feel bound to attribute no inconsiderable 
amount of beauty to a woman who could inspire her lover with 
sucli a delicate declaration of his perception of it, as is contained 
in these words of Clauclio to Don Pedro, his patron : 

O nry lord, 
When you went onward on this ended action, 
I look'd upon her with a soldier's eye, 
That lik'd, but had a rougher task in hand 
Thau to drive liking to the name of love ; 
But now I am return'd, and that war-thoughts 
Have left their places vacant, iu then - rooms 
Come thronging soft and delicate desires, 
All prompting me how fair young Hero is, 
Saying I lik'd her ere I went to wars. 



JULIA. 

The fair Julia of Verona was the beloved but coy mistress of 
Proteus. This gallant had a bosom friend, named Valentine — a 
gay young fellow, who laughed at Love and its victims, and who, 
persuaded that 

Home-keeping youths have ever homely wits, 

had just set out on a journey to Milan, where he was to engage in 
the service of the emperor. A short time after his departure, 
Antonio, the father of Proteus, determined that his son should join 
his friend in his honorable position at court, and forthwith notified 
that young gentleman to prepare for the journey. Proteus had but 
one sweet drop in his bitter cup of trial : his cruel mistress, full of 
remorse and sorrow, confessed her love for him. At parting they 
exchanged rings, after the fashion of true lovers ; and Proteus took 
a last agonizing farewell of his Julia in the following high-flown 
speech : 

Here is my hand for my true constancy ; 
And when that hour o'erslips me in the day 
Wherein I sigh not, Julia, for thy sake, 
The next ensuing hour some foul mischance 
Torment me for my love's forgetfulness ! 



88 JULIA. 

— while poor Julia was too much overcome to utter a single 
word. 

Arrived at Milan, Proteus found Valentine violently enamoured 
of Silvia, the beautiful daughter of the Duke of Milan, to whom 
Proteus had no sooner been presented by his friend than he forgot 
the lady of his vows, and set his wits to work to win this new love 
at all hazards. 

The Duke of Milan desired to marry his daughter to a noble- 
man of his court, Thurio by name, who was " by her very soul ab- 
horred ; " for she reciprocated Valentine's passion, and longed for 
nothing more than to reward it by the gift of her hand in mar- 
riage. Feeling: sure that "the duke would never consent to »this, 
they had made all their arrangements to elope, but were discov- 
ered through the treachery of Proteus, who, maddened at th& 
thought of losing Silvia forever, had betrayed Valentine to her 
father. 

Valentine was at once banished the kingdom, and Thurio, re- 
animated, urged anew his suit, through Proteus, to the hapless Sil- 
via ; Proteus played a treacherous game with Thurio, also — pre- 
tending to advance his interests with the lady, while he spoke 
only for his own. 

Meanwhile, Julia, grown impatient to behold her plighted 
lover, conceived the romantic idea of following him to Milan ; and 
with no attendant or protection, save her disguise as a "well- 
reputed page," she accomplished her " sentimental journey " to that 
city. Having reached there safely, the host of the inn where she 
lodged, in pity for the loneliness of his young guest, led her at 
night to where she should hear music — but alas ! what should the 
music be, but a serenade given by her faithless Proteus to the 
Lady Silvia, to whom he was pressing his suit as she leaned, 
from her window. Apparently but little daunted, Julia contrived 



JULIA. 89 

to enter her lover's service as a page ; and like Viola — and yet not 
like Viola — slie became the martyred Mercury between her own be- 
loved and the lady of his new passion. But little success attended 
this thankless office : Silvia scorned the thrice-perjured Proteus — 
for she knew of his faithlessness to a lady in Verona ; and finally, 
to rid herself of his abhorred proposals, and her father's impor- 
tunities in behalf of Thurio, she formed the hazardous project of 
escaping to join Valentine, who, she had heard, had taken refuge 
in Mantua. 

But Valentine, on his way to Mantua, had been waylaid in a for- 
est not far from Mian, and by his gallant bearing had so pleased 
the bandits that they made him their captain. Silvia, with a 
gentleman who had volunteered to accompany her, on entering 
the forest was seized by one of this band of ruffians, but res- 
cued by Proteus, who, followed by his page, had pursued her in 
hot haste. Proteus took advantage of her lonely condition — her 
companion having been separated from her in the melee — to urge 
his suit in no very gentle terms ; but Valentine arrived just in 
time to thwart his ungracious purpose. Finally, the duke and 
Thurio, likewise in pursuit of Silvia, were captured by the robbers, 
and brought in triumph before their captain ; whereupon full ex- 
planations were afforded to all concerned : Thurio relinquished his 
claim to Silvia's hand, and the duke, at last assured of Valentine's 
worth, bestowed his daughter where she had given her affections. 
Proteus confessed his baseness to his friend, who was so generous 
in his forgiveness as to offer him even his share in Silvia's love ; 
at which prospect the pretty page swooned at his master's feet. 
On recovering, he exhibited two rings, and uttered mysterious 
words which established his identity with a certain lady of Verona. 
Proteus, seized with remorse and re-awakened love for his faithful 
Julia, vowed perpetual constancy thenceforth ; and if she was con- 



90 JULIA. 

tent to take him at his word, in the face of all she had been privy 
to in his double dealings, it is not for us to demur. 



An intense, and somewhat fantastic, romance influences every 
thought and action of this spoiled coquette and beauty ; yet in her 
case, as in that of many passionate natures, it is but the superficial 
expression of deep and genuine emotions. "We have proof of this 
in the persistent coyness with which she receives her lover's suit — 
an artful affectation of indifference, which is cast aside at once 
when she learns that he is going away from her — as well as in her 
after relations with him. 

The scene in which her maid Lucetta brings her a love-letter 
from Proteus, is considered inimitable for its coquetry : 

Jul. Say, say ! who gave it thee ? 

Imc. Sir Valentine's page ; and sent, I think, from Proteus. 
He would have given it you ; but I, being in the way, 
Did in your name receive it — pardon the fault, I pray. 

Jul. Now, by my modesty, a goodly broker ! 
Dare you presume to harbor wanton Unes ? 
To whisper and conspire against my youth ? 
Now, trust me, 'tis an office of great worth, 
And you an officer fit for the place. 
There, take the paper ! see it be return'd ; 
Or else return no more into my sight. 
********* 

Jul. And yet, I would I had o'erlook'd the letter. 
It were a shame to call her back again, 
And pray her to a fault for which I chid her. 
What fool is she, that knows I am a maid, 
And would not force the letter to my.view ! 
Since maids, in modesty, say No to that 
Wbich they woidd have the profferer construe Ay. 
Fie, fie ! how wayward is this foolish love 



JULIA. 91 

That, like a testy babe, will scratch the nurse, 
And presently, all humbled, kiss the rod ! 
How churlishly I chid Lucetta hence, 
When willingly I would have had her here ! 
How angrily I taught my brow to frown, 
When inward joy enforc'd my heart to smile ! 

Jul. This babble shall not henceforth trouble me. 
Here is a coil, with protestation ! 
Go, get you gone ! and let the papers lie : 
You would be fingering them to anger me. 

Jul. ****** * 

hateful hands, to tear such loving words ! 
Injurious wasps ! to feed on such sweet honey, 
And kill the bees, that yield it, with your stings ! 
I'll kiss each several paper for amends. 

And here is writ — kind Julia ; — unkind Julia ! 
As in revenge of thy ingratitude, 

1 throw thy name against the bruising stones, 
Trampling contemptuously on thy disdain. 
Look ! here is writ — love-wounded Proteus : — 
Poor wounded name ! my bosom, as a bed, 

Shall lodge thee, till thy wound be th'roughly heal'd ; 
And thus I search it with a sovereign kiss. 

To Julia's lips Shakspeare lias given one of the most admired 
of his love-poems : 

Didst thou but know the inly touch of love, 

Thou would'st as soon go kindle fire with snow, 

As seek to quench the fire of love with words. 

********* 

The more thou dam'st it up, the more it burns ; 

The current that with gentle murmur glides, 

Thou know'st, being stopp'd, impatiently doth rage ; 

But when his fair course is not hindered, 

He makes sweet music with the enamel'd stones, 

Giving a gentle kiss to every sedge 

He overtaketh in his pilgrimage ; 

And so, by many winding nooks he strays, 



92 JULIA. 

With willing sport, to the wild ocean. 
Then let me go, and hinder not my course : 
I'll be as patient as a gentle stream, 
And make a pastime of each weary step, 
Till the last step have brought me to my love ; 
And there I'll rest, as, after much turmoil, 
A blessed soul doth in Elysium. 

And there is a charming touch of feminity in the choice 
of a costume for her disguise, which relieves her pilgrimage of 
its ultra-heroic quality, and which a less subtile creator would 
have omitted, as unworthy the consideration of so grandiloquent 
a heroine : 

Luc. But in what habit will you go along ? 

Jul. Not like a woman ; for I would prevent 
The loose encounters of lascivious men : 
Gentle Lucetta, fit me with such weeds 
As may beseem some well-reputed page. 

Imc. Why then your ladyship must cut your hair. 

Jul. No, girl ; I'll knit it up in silken strings, 
With twenty odd-conceited true-love knots : 
To be fantastic may become a youth 
Of greater time than I shall show to be. 

Luc. What fashion, madam, shall I make your breeches? 
' Jul. That fits as well as — " Tell me, good my lord, 
" What compass will you wear your farthingale ? " 
Why, even that fashion thou best lik'st, Lucetta. 

Once fairly in Milan, and shocked with the sad intelligence of 
her lover's disloyalty — that lover for whom she has dared so much 
— her proud romance is quelled ; the lofty ideal, which she has 
clothed with all the fanciful imaginings of a sentimental enthusiast, 
is torn down ; and in its place the honorable possibilities of a very 
faulty man, and her own steadfast love, are all that remain to 
solace her disappointed heart. Yet with only these she becomes 



his page, to enter upon the most painful service he could allot her 
— the wooing of another. 

It is now that Julia's true character is brought to light, strip- 
ped of the idle fantasies which waited on her happy love : she is 
brought face to face with that pitiless fact, the assurance of un- 
worthiness in one beloved ; and she endures the spectacle patient- 
ly, quietly, the least in the world like those heroines of romance 
who probably served her as models during her capricious belle- 
hood in Verona. 

Her tender remonstrance with Proteus is surpassed only by a 
somewhat similar scene in Twelfth Nighty between Viola and the 
duke, which indeed exceeds it but little in poetic beauty and gen- 
tle pathos : 

Pro. ******** 

Go presently, and take this ring with thee ; 
Deliver it to Madam Silvia : 
She loved me well deliver'd it to me. 

Jul. It seems you loved not her, to leave her token ; 
She's dead, belike. 

Pro. Not so ; I think she lives. 

Jul. Alas! 

Pro. Why dost thou cry Alas ! 

Jul. I cannot choose but pity her. 

Pro. Wherefore shouldst thou pity her ? 

Jul. Because niethinks that she loved you as well 
As you do love your Lady Silvia : 
She dreams on him that has forgot her love ; 
You dote on her that cares not for your love. 
'Tis pity Love should be so contrary ; 
And thinking on it makes me cry Alas ! 

Pro. Well, give her that ring, and therewithal 
This letter ; — that's her chamber. — Tell my lady 
I claim the promise for her heavenly picture. 

When Proteus has retired, Julia, taking her pride to task, gives 



94 JULIA. 

expression to that pity wherewith she would justify her infatua- 
tion — as if she could not find it in her heart to deny her love to 
one so wretchedly unlovable : 



How many women would do such a 
Alas, poor Proteus ! thou hast entertain'd 
A fox to he the shepherd of thy lamhs. 
Alas, poor fool ! why do I pity him 
That with his very heart despiseth me ? 
Because he loves her he despiseth me ; 
Because I love him, I must pity him. 

— which is only any Julia's way of saying, " Because I pity, I must 
love him — " 

This ring I gave him, when he parted from me, 

To bind him to remember my good will ; 

And now am I (unhappy messenger) 

To plead for that which I would not obtain, 

To carry that which I would have refused, 

To praise his faith which I would have dispraised. 

I am my master's true confirmed love ; 

But cannot be true servant to my master, 

Unless I prove false traitor to myself. 

Yet will I woo for him. 

The scene in which she first pays her duty to Silvia, as Pro- 
teus' love-messenger, is admirably conceived; and it affords our 
curiosity the only personal description of Julia : 

Jul. Madam, he sends your ladyship this ring. 

Sil. The more shame for him that he sends it me ; 
For I have heard him say, a thousand times, 
His Julia gave it him at his departure. 
Though his false finger have profan'd the ring, 
Mine shall not do his Julia so much wrong. 

Dost thou know her ? 



JULIA. 95 

Jul. Almost as well as I do know myself. 
******* 

Sil. Is she not passing fair ? 

Jul. She hath heen fairer, madam, than she ia : 
When she did think my master lov'd her well, 
She, in my judgment, was as fair as you ; 
But since she did neglect her looking-glass, 
And threw her sun-expelling mask away, 
The ah- hath starv'd the roses in her cheeks, 
And pinch'd the lily-tincture of her face, 
That now she is hecome as black as I. 

Silvia, whose interest is as honest as it is amiable, desires to 
know how tall she is : 

Jul. About my stature ; for at Pentecost, 
When all our pageants of delight were play'd, 
Our youth got me to play the woman's part, 
And I was trimm'd in Madam Julia's gown, 
Which served me as fit, by all men's judgment, 
As if the garment had been made for me ; 
Therefore, I know she is about my height. 

********* 

Here is her picture : Let me see ! I think 

If I had such a tire, this face of mine 

Were full as lovely as is this of hers ; 

And yet the painter flatter'd her a little, 

Unless I flatter with myself too much. 

Her hair is auburn — mine is perfect yellow : 

If that be all the difference in his love, 

I'll get me such a color'd periwig. 

Her eyes are grey as glass — and so are mine ; 

Ay, but her forehead's low — and mine's as high. 

What shoidd it be that he respects in her 

But I can make respective in myself, 

If this fond Love were not a blinded god ? 

We can but rejoice that Julia's fidelity is rewarded at last by 
the restored allegiance o£ her recreant lover ; though we must con- 



96 JULIA. 

less to but little faith in a repentance which seems forced upon 
him. That he is a treacherous, weak, thoroughly contemptible 
character, however, should affect our admiration of Julia's devotion 
to him as little as it did her love — or in fact that of any woman 
since time began. 




' 



SILVIA. 

The bare facts of Silvia's story, which are almost identical 
with those of Julia's, would to a certain extent warrant one in 
imagining a like identity of character ; yet there is a clear differ- 
ence between the gracious, well-disciplined Lady Silvia — a court 
beauty, whose lightest act is governed by prescribed etiquette, and 
whose lofty dignity despises all tricks to attract admiration, all 
coquettish displays of wit or person — and the Veronese belle, 
whose caprices are as countless as her lovers, and whose pretty 
head is at one time almost hopelessly turned by their fine speeches 
and the delightful contemplation of her own perfections. Both 
are in love ; but how different is its expression in the two women : 
Silvia, incapable of indulging her vanity at the expense of her 
lover's peace, condescends to a pretty ruse to assure him of her 
favor ; Julia, in the hey-day of successful coquetry, alternately 
blesses Proteus and drives him to despair, twenty times a day, as 
her fantastic humor may dictate — consenting to make him happy, 
by a confession of her preference, only when her genuine sorrow 
at parting from him gets the better of her caprice. 

In devotion and fidelity they assimilate more closely — but only 
in degree, not in kind : we feel sure that Silvia could never have 
13 



98 SILVIA. 

continued to love a man whom she had found treacherous ; with her 
passion would always he subordinate^to principle ; a shock to her 
sense of honor, from the object beloved, would prove its death- 
blow. She is less loving, in a general application of the expres- 
sion, less impulsive, less vain, less womanly, than Julia ; — or rather, 
she is a higher type of wonitfh : Silvia derives her strength from 
her intellect ; Julia is strong only in her affections. 

As for their amorous pilgrimages: Julia's is undertaken in 
obedience to an impulse of wild, adventurous romance, having no 
authorities to consult but her waiting-maid and her own accommo- 
dating will — a delicious indulgence of high-wrought passion in 
picturesque disguise, in mystery, in possible danger. That of Sil- 
via, on the other hand, is forced upon her by cruel necessity : 
suffering the impertinent and pertinacious espionage of her father, 
and the suits of two detested aspirants for her hand, while her 
betrothed husband is banished the country, she has no choice 
but to comply with her father's wishes and marry Thurio, or to 
follow at all hazards him to whom her faith is plighted. Having 
once resolved on the latter course, she pursues it with her char- 
acteristic dignity and careful deliberation ; and she escapes from 
her father's custody under the protection of a gentleman of the 
court, who is " vow'd to pure chastity " on the grave of his lady- 
love. We are convinced that nothing short of violence coidd 
have turned Silvia from her purpose ; but we can readily believe 
that some necessary disfigurement hi her page's costume might 
have rendered Julia's proposed freak distasteful, or even have de- 
terred her from it altogether. 

Her beauty is, with Julia, a consideration of the first impor- 
tance ; she has made it the study of her dainty life ; in a coquettish 
engagement she knows to a hah- of her pencilled eyebrows how 
much each weapon is worth, and when the time to employ it ; her 



SILVIA. 99 

first thought, on seeing the woman who has caused her lover to 
forget her, is : In what is she more beautiful than I, that he should 
love her better ? Silvia is not less informed of her rare charms 
of person — perhaps no less happy in that knowledge ; but she is 
seemingly devoid of even a trace of vanity ; her serene brows are 
as guiltless of the blushes of a vulgar consciousness as those, 
crescent-crowned, of Dian. 

We may scarcely accept lovers' words as evidence, in a case 
requiring such niee impartiality ; yet even their hyperbolical rhap- 
sodies may assist us in establishing a theory concerning the source 
of their inspiration : 

Pro. ***** 
Was this the idol that you worship so ? 

Val. Even she ; and is she not a heavenly saint ? 
Pro. No ; but she is an earthly paragon. 
Val. Call her divine. 
Pro. I will not flatter her. 

Val. Then speak the truth by her ; if not divine, 
Yet let her be a principality, 
Sovereign to all the oreatures on the earth. 

Pro. Except my mistress. 

Val. Sweet, except not any — 

Except thou wilt accept against my love. 

Pro. Have I not reason to prefer mine own? 

Val. And I will help thee to prefer her too : 
She shall be dignified with this high honor — 
To bear my lady's train ; lest the base earth 
Should from her vesture chance to steal a kiss, 
And, of so great a favor growing proud, 
Disdain to root the summer-swelling flower, 
And make rough winter everlastingly. 

Pro. Why, Valentine, what braggardism is this ? 

Val. Pavtkm me, Proteus : all I can is nothing, 
To her whose worth makes other worthies nothing ; 
She i^ alone. 

LofC. 



] 00 SILVIA. 

Pro. Then let her alone. 

Vol. Not for the world. Why, man, she is mine own 
And I as rich in having such a jewel 
As twenty seas, if all their sand were pearl, 
The water nectar, and the rocks pure gold. 

Proteus, alone : 



Is it mine eye, or Valentinus' praise, 

Her true perfection, or my false transgression, 

That makes me reasonless, to reason thus ? 

******** 

How shall I dote on her with more advice 

That thus, without advice, begin to love her ? 

'Tis but her picture I have yet beheld, 

And that hath dazzled my reason's light ; 

But when I look on her perfections, 

There is no reason but I shall be blind. 

******** 

And Silvia — witness Heaven, that made her fair ! — 

Shows Julia but a swarthy Ethiope. 

A few passages, here and there, will serve to illustrate Silvia's 
character. The following soliloquy of Proteus, touching his perfid- 
ious suit, does her honor, even from lips so unworthy : 



But Silvia is too fair, too true, too holy, 
To be corrupted with my worthless gifts. • 
When I protest true loyalty to her, 
She twits me with my falsehood to my friend ; 
When to her beauty I commend my vows, 
She bids me think how I have been forsworn 
In breaking faith with Julia whom I lov'd ; 
And, notwithstanding all her sudden quips, 
The kast whereof would quell a lover's hope, 
Yet, spaniel-like, the more she spurns my love, 
The more it grows and fawneth on her still. 



SILVIA. 101 

And her own words to him, in Julia's hearing, on the night of 
the serenade, afford still more conclusive evidence of her incor- 
ruptible purity : 



Thou subtle, perjur'd, false, disloyal man ! 
Think'st thou I am so shallow, so conceitless, 
To be seduced by thy flattery, 
That hast deceiv'd so many with thy vows ? 
Return, return, and make thy love amends ! 
For me, — by this pale queen of night I swear !- 
I am so far from granting thy request, 
That I despise thee for thy wrongful suit ; 
And by and by intend to chide myself, 
Even for this time I spend in talking to thee. 



VIOLA. 

Viola was the daughter of one Sebastian, a Messalinian, and of 
gentle Wood. Voyaging with her twin-brother Sebastian, near the 
coast of IUyria, a terrible storm arose, which wrecked the vessel, 
only a few of her crew reaching the shore. Viola was among the 
saved ; but her brother's fate for a time remained unknown. A 
young and beautiful woman, without protection, in a strange land, 
she conceived the familiar idea of attiring herself as a page, to 
engage service in some noble family ; and thus, through the influ- 
ence of the captain of the wrecked vessel, she obtained admission, 
under the name of Cesario, into the household of Orsino, duke of 
Illyria. 

This young nobleman had long been enamoured of the Countess 
Olivia, a noble and wealthy lady, who did not in the least recipro- 
cate Ms preference. Orsino, prepossessed with his pretty page, 
made Viola his confidant in his unhappy love ■ affair, and consti- 
tuted it her chief duty to deliver his tender messages to the inac- 
cessible countess. 

Olivia, denying herself to all others, received the handsome, 
boy, with whom, despite their unequal rank, she promptly fell in 
love, and, after a few interviews, confessed her passion for him. 



104 VIOLA. 

Viola, dismayed by the false position into which her disguise 
had betrayed her, herself in love "with the gallant duke, assured 
the countess, in reply, that no woman did, or ever should, possess 
her heart, and that she would never again approach her, even on 
her master's errand. 

Sebastian, Viola's brother, had happily been saved from the 
wreck, by his friend Antonio. Walking one day past Olivia's 
house, he was violently assailed by that lady's uncle, Sir Toby 
Belch, who, from Sebastian's exact resemblance to his sister Viola, 
mistook him for Cemrio, and accused him of a previous insult. 
The countess, informed of the altercation, hastened to the rescue 
of her beloved Cesario, and was deceived equally with her uncle. 
She conducted Sebastian into the house, and bestowed her hospi- 
tality with such fascinating grace that the lucky youth, though 
amazed at his reception, was charmed with her elegance and 
beauty. Olivia, delighted to find the disdainful Cesario suddenly 
metamorphosed into a lover, at once proposed that they should 
seal their vows before a priest who was then at hand ; to which 
Sebastian, now deep in love, consented — and they were married. 

The marvellous resemblance between Viola and Sebastian — 

One face, one voice, one habit, and two persons — 

was shortly the occasion of another confre-temps : Antonio, Sebas- 
tian's preserver, mistook Viola for her brother, and, in the presence 
of the duke, accused her of base ingratitude, in ignoriug him who 
had saved her life. But even while he was speaking, Olivia en- 
tered, and claimed Viola as her husband ; this aroused the jealous 
rage of Orsino, who naturally inferred that his page had been 
playing him false ; but the eclaircissement and the crowning mys- 
tification were simultaneously achieved by the entrance of Se- 
bastian. 



VIOLA. 105 

Hereupon, explanations, satisfactory to all : Olivia was nothing 
loth to retain the bridegroom she had chosen so hastily ; and Or- 
sino, always tenderly attached to his faithful page, found it "by no 
means difficult, now that Olivia was forever lost to him, to transfer 
his affections to Viola, when she appeared before him in her proper 
character — a young and beautiful woman who adored him. And 
thus their misfortune proved indeed a "most happy wreck" to the 
twins — the one gaining thereby a gallant and noble husband, the 
other a beautiful and wealthy wife. 



Viola, without possessing any of those brilliant qualities that 
compel our admiration in Portia, Rosalind, or Beatrice, endears 
herself to us by the ingenuousness, modesty, and tenderness of her 
character. Like Rosalind, Viola disguises herself as a page ; but 
instead of assuming that " swashing and martial outside " which 
Rosalind affects, as part of her masculine attire, she is most dis- 
creetly disposed, permitting herself no word or gesture inconsistent 
with the nicest propriety ; she changes nothing but her dress — 
she is Viola throughout. Each is in daily intercourse with the 
man she loves. With Orlando, Rosalind is saucy and coquettish^ 
Viola manifests her* self-sacrificing devotion to Orsino, by becom- 
ing his love-herald to the proud Olivia — wooing for her master 
from another the bliss which she longed to bestow only through 
herself. 

Like Rosalind again, Viola is beloved by a woman ; but the 
Countess Olivia differs as widely from the capricious shepherdess, 
Phebe, as the treatment which their infatuations severally receive : 
Rosalind mocks, and plays with, Phebe's preference, even while 
she repulses it; Viola's feminine reserve is shocked at the un- 



106 VIOLA. 

wooed confession of Olivia's love. Yet how full of tendei pity 
are her words, when first she suspects the hapless truth : 

What means this lady ? 
Fortune forbid my outside have not charm' d her ! 
She made good view of me — indeed, so much 
That sure, methought, her eyes had lost her tongue; 
For she did speak in starts, distractedly. 
She loves me, sure ; 

If it be so, (as 'tis,) 
Poor lady, she were better love a dream. 
Disguise, I see, thou art a wickedness, 
Wherein the pregnant enemy does much. 
How easy is it for the proper-false 
In women's waxen hearts to set then - forms ! 
Alas, our frailty is the cause, not we ; 
For such as we are made of, such we be. 
How will this fadge ? My master loves her dearly ; 
And I, poor monster, fond as much on him ; 
And she, mistaken, .seems to dote on me : 
What will become of this ! As I am man, 
My state is desperate for my master's love ; 
As I am woman — now alas the day ! 
What thriftless sighs shall poor Olivia breathe ? 
O Time, thou must untangle this, not I ; 
It is too hard a knot for me to untie. 

Of her person, her brother Sebastian says : 

A lady, sir, though it was said she much resembled me, 
was yet of many accounted beautiful; but though I 
coidd not, with such estimable wonder, over far believe 
that, yet thus far I will boldly publish her — she bore a 
mind that envy could not but call fan - . 

The description by Malvolio, Olivia's steward, is characteristic 

Not yet old enough for a man, nor young enough for 
a boy ; as a squash is before 'tis a peascod, or a codling 



VIOLA. 107 

when 'tis almost an apple : 'tis with him e'en standing 
water, between boy and man. He is very well-favored, 
and he speaks very shrewishly; one would think his 
mother's milk were scarce out of him. 

• 

We have abundant evidence of the high-bred grace of her 
bearing, in the rapturous soliloquy of the Lady Olivia, even after 

due allowance has been made for the exaggeration of love : 

• 

What is your parentage ? 

Above my fortunes ; yet my state is well — 

lam a gentleman. I'll be sworn thou art ; 

Thy tongue, thy face, thy limbs, actions, and spirit, 

Do give thee five-fold blazon. — Not too fast : — soft ! soft ! — 

Unless the master were the man. — How now ? 

Even so quickly may one catch the plague ? 

Methinks I feel this yotith's perfections, 

With an invisible and subtle stealth, 

To creep in at mine eyes. Well, let it be. 

A dialogue between Viola and the Duke Orsino affords us the 
clearest insight into the sweet pensiveness of her mind, intensified 
somewhat by hopeless devotion to her master : 

Vio. But if she cannot love you, sir ? 

Duke. I cannot be so answer'd. 

Vio. 'Sooth, but you must. 

Say that some lady, as perhaps there is, 
Hath for your love as great a pang of heart 
As you have for Olivia : you cannot love her ; 
Tou tell her so. Must she not then be answer'd ? 

Dulce. There is no woman's sides 
Can bide the beating of so strong a passion 
As love doth give my heart — no woman's heart 
So big, to hold so much ; they lack retention. 
Alas ! their love may be called appetite, — 
No motion of the liver, but the palate, — 
That suffer surfeit, cloyment, and revolt ; 



108 VIOLA. 

But mine is all as hungry as the sea, 
And can digest as much. Make no compare 
Between that love a woman can bear me 
And that I owe Olivia. 

Vio. Ay, but I know — 

Duke. What dost thou know ? 

Vio. Too well what love women to men may owe : 
In faith, they are as true of heart as we. 
My father had a daughter lov'd a man — 
As it might bef perhaps, were I a woman, 
I should yourtordship. 

Duke. • And what's her history ? 

Vio. A blank, my lord : She never told her love ; 
But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud, 
Feed on her damask cheek. She pin'd in thought ; 
And, with a green and yellow melancholy, 
She sat, like Patience on a monument, 
Smiling at grief. "Was not this love, indeed ? 
We men may say more, swear more ; but, indeed, 
Our shows are more than will ; for still we prove 
Much in our vows, but little in our love. 

Duke. But died thy sister of her love, my boy ? 

Vio. I am all the daughters of my father's house, 
And all the brothers too ; — and yet I know not. — 
Sir, shall I to this lady ? 

Duke. Ay ! that's the theme. 

To her in haste ; give her this jewel ; say 
My love can give no place, bide no denay. 




. 



OLIVIA. 

The prominent events in the history of the Countess Olivia 
have already "been noted in the chapter devoted to Viola. Cele- 
brated for beanty — the charm of which is doubtless enhanced 
by the "quantity of dirty lands" whereof she is mistress — of 
a "smooth, discreet, and stable bearing," "swaying her house, 
commanding her followers," with the innate dignity of a lady ac- 
customed from "birth to princely surroiuidings, she has neverthe- 
less all the legitimate caprices of an imperious belle. 

Olivia persistently rejects the violent suit of an accomplished, 
elegant nobleman — a parti exactly suited in every particular to 
her station in life — to bestow her coveted favors on the obscure 
little page of her princely lover ; and the very condescension im- 
plied in this eccentricity acquits her love for Viola of the charge 
of indelicacy. "We regard her sudden fancy for the pretty boy as 
the unchecked whim of the moment ; to use her own words, it 
was " that time of moon " with her to be so impressed ; it has by 
no means attained the dignity of passion in our minds, nor do we 
ever propose to try it by the rules and regulations applicable to 
cases of orthodox love-making. 

Yet, for all that, it is serious enough; Juliet, herself, is not 



110 OLIVIA. 

more tenderly impatient, nor more suddenly involved, than our 
wilful countess. 

In a propitious moment she imagines she finds Cesario respon- 
sive to her suit, and with a woman's quick appropriation of oppor- 
tunity thus addresses him : 

Blame not this haste of mine : If you meaYi well, 
Now go with me, and with this holy man, 
Into the chantry by. There, before him, 
And underneath that consecrated roof, 
Plight me the full assurance of your faith, 
That my most jealous and too doubtful soul 
May live at peace. 

And with what reckless abandon does she confess her love for the 
page : 

O, what a deal of scom looks beautiful 

In the contempt and anger of his lip ! 

A murd'rous guilt shows not itself more soon 

Than love that woidd seem hid. Love's night is noon. 

Cesario, by the roses of the spring, 

By maiclhood, honor, truth, and every thing, 

I love thee so, that, maugre all thy pride, 

Nor wit, nor reason, can my passion hide. 

She continues to urge her hopeless suit with no less ardor and 
seK-forgetfulness ; thus prettily she puts aside the duke's love- 
making, to advance her own : 

O, by your leave, I pray you : 

I bade you never speak again of him ; 

But, woidd you undertake another suit, 

I had rather hear you to solicit that 

Than music from the spheres. 

Vio. Dear lady, 

OIL Give me leave, I beseech you : I did send, 

After the last enchantment you did here, 



OLIVIA. Ill 

A ring in chase of you ; so did I abuse 

Myself, my servant — and, I fear me, you. 

Under your hard construction must I sit, 

To force that on you, in a shameful cunning, 

Which you knew none of yours. "What might you think ? 

Have you not set mine honor at the stake, 

And baited it with all the unmuzzled thoughts 

That tyrannous heart can think ? To one of your receiving 

Enough is shown ; a cypress, «ot a bosom, 

Hides my poor heart. 

********* 

Here ! wear this jewel for me ; 'tis my picture. 

Refuse it not ; it hath no tongue to vex you ; 

And, I beseech you, come again to-morrow. 

What shall you ask of me that I'll deny — 

That honor, sav'd, may upon asking give ? 

As to her personal charms, Viola addresses her as " Most ra- 
diant, exquisite, and uninatchable beauty," and says of her face : 

'Tis beauty truly blent, whose red and white 
Nature's own sweet and cunning hand laid on. 
********* 
I see you what yon are : you are too proud ; 
But, if you were the devil, you are fair. 

Olivia acknowledges to Cesario her fault of unwomanly bold- 
ness ; but the confession is plainly neither preceded nor followed 
by even a pretence of penitence ; it is but one of the thousand 
coquettish tricks of a spoiled beauty to win back the respect which 
she feels she has justly forfeited : 

I have said too much unto a heart of stone, 
And laid my honor too unchary out ; 
There's something in me that reproves my fault ; 
But such a headstrong, potent fault it is, 
That it but mocks reproof. 




... 



MARIA. 

Maria, waiting-woman to the Countess Olivia, is a true type 
of the mischief-making heroine of life below-stairs — the stage 
sonbrette. Arch, coquettish, full of genuine humor, her ready re- 
sources of fun are liberally diffused throughout this charming 
comedy, with a bewildering succession of ludicrous situations, and 
merry mishaps deduced from them. 

Malvolio, steward of Olivia's household, having presumed to 
take exception to the noisy and not over-nice carousals of Sir 
Toby Belch, for whom Maria entertains a saucy sort of prefer- 
ence, she, to be quits with him — but more, perhaps, for love of a 
practical jest — resolves to make him ridiculous. This she accom- 
plishes effectually ; but the following groundwork of her plot 
affords but an incomplete idea of its laughable consequences : 

Mar. The devil a Puritan that he is, or any thing con- 
stantly but a time-pleaser — an affection'd ass, that cons 
state without book, and utters it by great swarths ; the 
best persuaded of himself; so crammed, as he thinks, 
with excellences, that it is his ground of faith that all 
that look on him love him ; and on that vice in him will 
my revenge find notable cause to work. 

Sir To. What wilt thou do ? 
15 



Hi MARIA. 

Mar. I will drop in his way some obscure epistles of 
love, wherein, by the color of his beard, the shape of his 
leg, the manner of his gait, the expressure of his eye, 
forehead, and complexion, he shall find himself most 
feelingly personated : I can write very like my lady, your 
niece ; on a forgotten matter we can hardly make dis- 
tinction of our hands. 
********** 

Sir To. He shall think, by the letters that thou wilt 
drop, that they come from my niece, and that she is in 
love with him. 

Mar. My purpose is, indeed, a horse of that color. 

A sketch, only, of the garden scene, and we have done with 
this merry episode : 

Sir To. Here comes the little villain : — How now, my 
metal of India ? 

Mar. Get ye all three into the box-tree ; Malvolio's 
coming down this walk ; he has been yonder i' the sun, 
practising behavior to Ms own shadow, this half hour : 
observe him, for the love of mockery ; for I know this 
letter will make a contemplative idiot of him. Close, in 
the name of jesting ! [The men hide themselves.] Lie 
thou there ! [throws down a letter] for here comes the 
trout that must be caught with tickling. 
*********** 

Mai. By my life, this is my lady's hand ! These be 
her very C"s, her Z7's, and her Ts ; and thus makes she 
her great P's. It is, in contempt of question, her hand. 



I do not now fool myself, to let imagination jade me ; 
for every reason excites to this, — that my lady loves me. 
She did commend my yellow stockings of late ; she did 
praise my leg being cross-gartered; and in this she 
manifests herself to my love. ***** 

I thank my 
stars I am happy. I will be strange, stout, in yellow 



115 



stockings and cross-gartered, even with the swiftness of 
putting on. 

Sir To. I could marry this wench for this device. 

Sir And. So could I too. 

Sir To. And ask no other dowry with her but such 
another jest. 
********** 

Mar. If you will then see the fruits of the sport, mark 
his first approach before my lady : he will come to her 
in yellow stockings — and 'tis a color she abhors ; and 
cross-gartered— a fashion she detests ; and he will smile 
upon her — which will now be so unsuitable to her dispo- 
sition, being addicted to a melancholy as she is, that it 
cannot but turn him into a notable contempt : if you will 
see it, follow me. 

Sir To. To the gates of Tartar, thou most excellent 
devil of wit ! 

It will be seen that Sir Toby Belch, was as good as bis word, 
for once at least ; be did marry tbe merry Maria, wbose power of 
amusing bim bad taken bun captive. Yet we will bope for gal- 
lantry even from so coarse a lover ; Fabian tells tbe Lady Obvia, 
in final explanation, tbat 



Maria writ 



■»■■■.■-■- iviaria wru 

The letter at Sir Toby's great importance — 

In recompense whereof, he hath married her 



and we will amiably bebeve him capable of thus hberating Maria 
from a position of much embarrassment toward her mistress, with 
whose dignity she had indeed made something too free — in order 
that the Lady Obvia might find it easy to forgive a jest from her 
aunt which would be insufferable from her waitiug-woman. 



PORTIA. 

Portia, mistress of "Belmont," her hereditary estate, was a 
wealthy heiress and an orphan, who, by her father's will, was to 
be bestowed in marriage according to an odd conceit, by which, 
before his death, she had vowed to abide. Three caskets — of gold, 
silver, and lead, respectively — were to be submitted to the choice 
of the suitor, who must previously have sworn never to marry 
should he fail ; and the selection of the one which contained a por- 
trait of the lady would constitute him her husband. The wealth- 
iest and most noble gentlemen of the land, and many from afar, 
hastened to woo the fair Portia, the fame of whose beauty, virtues, 
aud rich inheritance had gone abroad. 

Among these romantic competitors was Bassanio, a young Ve- 
netian of high rank but fallen fortunes, for whom, in times past, 
Portia had entertained a preference. In order to fit himself out for 
his journey as became a suitor to so renowned a lady, he had been 
beholden to his friend Antonio, a wealthy merchant of Venice, for 
a loan of three thousand ducats ; and Antonio, in his turn, had 
been compelled to borrow the money from Shylock, a Jew, and a 
notorious usurer. For this loan Antonio gave his bond, to the 
effect that, in case of his failing to pay back the money at the ap- 



118 PORTIA. 

pointed time, lie should forfeit a pound of his own flesh, to be cut 
from whichever part of his body Shylock should prefer — the 
money-lender having himself dictated this extraordinary stipula- 
tion, with a malignant motive. 

Bassanio, having made himself acceptable to Portia, determined 
finally to decide his fate by the ordeal of the caskets ; and, to their 
mutual joy, he chose the one which contained her picture. But, 
even as they were receiving the congratulations of their friends, a 
letter arrived from Antonio, announcing that his ships, on the safe 
return of which he had counted for the means of paying his debt 
to the Jew, had been wrecked, and that he was therefore about to 
submit to the cruel alternative prescribed in the bond. The high- 
spirited Portia, thus learning that a friend of her affianced husband 
was like to die for having assisted him, married Bassanio at once, 
to give him legal control over her possessions, and despatched him 
in all haste to pay the Jew and release Antonio. 

No sooner, however, had Bassanio departed, than she sent a 
messenger to Bellario, her cousin and a counsellor, for advice, and 
his robes — on receiving which, she and her waiting-woman, Nerissa, 
disguised as a lawyer and his clerk, set out forthwith for Venice, 
where this extraordinary suit was already " all the talk." 

Portia arrived just in time for the trial ; and having presented 
her credentials'from Bellario, introducing to the duke the young 
Doctor Balthazar, she took her seat m court, as counsel for An- 
tonio. 

When it was her turn to speak, she began by offering Shylock 
the money, even thrice the sum ; but he triumphantly refused. 
Then she appealed in eloquent terms to his mercy ; and when that 
failed, she bade him help himself to his pound of flesh, but to take 
heed that he shed not a single drop of blood, for by so doing he 
would forfeit all his estates and goods to the State of Venice. 



PORTIA. 119 

This tjnely hit of the young doctor was received with unani- 
mous applause. Not only was Shylock thus baffled in his murderous 
plot for personal revenge, but for having conspired against the life 
of a citizen he was condemned to transfer half his possessions to 
Antonio, the other half to be confiscated to the State. But Anto- 
nio generously relinquished his share, on condition that Shylock, 
at his death, should bequeath it to his daughter Jessica, whom he 
had disinherited for having married Lorenzo, a Christian, and 
friend of Bassanio. 

Portia returned home in time to welcome Bassanio and Anto- 
nio ; there, in the midst of the general rejoicing, she confessed her 
part in the happy result, and there were no bounds to the " tender 
joy that filled the hearts of those who went to rest in Belmont!" 



Portia is distinguished by a patrician elegance of person and 
presence, which is so innately her own that it depends but little 
for its effect on the aristocratic pretension of her surroundings. 
Although far from popular — her reputation for extraordinary men- 
tal endowments being sufficient to constitute a formidable obstacle 
to public favor — she is one of the most delightful of Skakspeare's 
women. Her intellectual quality is indeed marked ; but that can 
never render a woman less lovable, when, as in Portia's case, it is 
subordinate to the affections. Schlegel, regarding her from a 
purely critical point of view, pronounces her "clever;" and al- 
though Mrs. Jameson protests against the application of so dubious 
an epithet to this " heavenly compound of talent, feeling, wjsdom, 
beauty, and gentleness," we must confess that to us it seems well 
chosen. "Clever" does not, indeed, imply the possession of illus- 
trious powers ; but it does signify that nice " dexterity in the 



120 PORTIA. 

adaptation of certain faculties to a certain end or aim " which is 
eminently graceful and feminine, and exactly describes the mental 
characteristics of Portia, as most conspicuously displayed in the 
trial scene, wherein her success is achieved, not by the exercise of 
inherent wisdom, or an educated judgment, but by the merely 
clever discovery of a legal quibble. That the word has fallen into 
disrepute, from unworthy associations, should not impair its legiti- 
mate value. True, it does "suggest the idea of something we 
should distrust and shrink from, if not allied to a higher nature ;" 
but we contend that, in Portia, cleverness is allied to a higher na- 
ture — to qualities which are, indeed, scarcely less perfect than her 
fair panegyrist has portrayed them — in a woman whose "plenteous 
wit" and excelling accomplishments are more than equalled by 
her tenderness, her magnanimity, her graceful dignity, and her 
lofty honor. 

The scene wherein the happy consummation of her love de- 
pends on the perilous chance of her lover's choosing the casket 
which contains her picture, is full of eloquent touches. We may 
almost count the' heart-throbs of Portia, as she pleads to Bassanio, 
in such candid confusion of fear, to " pause a day or two before 
he hazards : " 

I pray you, tarry ; pause a day or two 
Before you hazard ; for, in choosing wrong, 
I lose your company ; therefore, forbear a while. 
There's something tells me, (but it is not love,) 
I would not lose you ; and you know, yourself, 
Hate counsels not in such a quality ; 
But lest you should not understand me well, 
(And yet a maiden hath no tongue but thought,) 
I would detain you here some month or two, 
Before you venture for me. I could teach you 
How to choose right — but then I am forsworn ; 
So will I never be : so may you miss me ; 



PORTIA. 121 

But if you do, you'll make me wish a sin — 
That I had been forsworn. Beshrew your eyes ! 
They have o'erlook'd me, and divided me ; 
One half of me is yours, the other half yours, — 
Mine own, I would say ; but if mine, then yours — 
And so all yours : 

******** 
Away then ! I am lock'd in one of them ; 
If you do love me, you will find me out. 

Her chaste passion, which she has studiously repressed while 
threatened with the possibility of disappointment, "bursts forth in 
this exuberance of joy when her lover has indeed won her : 

How all the other passions fleet to air — 

As doubtful thoughts, and rash-embrac'd despair, 

And shudd'ring fear, and green-ey'd jealousy ! 

Love, be moderate, allay thy ecstasy, 

In measure rain thy joy, scant this excess ; 

1 feel too much thy blessing ; make it less, 
For fear I surfeit ! 

But Portia is surrounded by guests and attendants ; this is no 
time for Love's transports, even if she were less accustomed to 
self-command ; it is necessary that she should formally acknowledge 
her future husband ; and with what rare tact, excelling dignity, and 
love disdaining all affectation of diffidence, is her acceptance of 
him clothed. We wonder how any one, after having read this 
most womanly speech, dictated by the simplest emotions of a lov- 
ing and modest heart, can accuse Portia of affectation or pedantry : 

You see me, lord Bassanio, where I stand, 
Such as I am. Though, for myself alone, 
I would not be ambitious in my wish, 
To wish myself much better ; yet, for you, 
I would be trebled twenty times myseb? — 
A thousand times more fair, ten thousand times 
More rich ; 
16 



122 PORTIA. 

That only to stand high on your account, 
I might in virtues, beauties, livings, friends, 
Exceed account. But the full sum of me 
Is sum of something ; which, to term in gross, 
Is an unlesson'd girl, unschool'd, unpractis'd : 
Happy in this — she is not yet so old 
But she may learn ; and happier than this — 
She is not bred so dull but she can learn ; 
Happiest of all is, that her gentle spirit 
Commits itself to yours to be directed, 
As from her lord, her governor, her king. 
Myself, and what is mine, to you and yours 
Is now converted ; but now I was the lord 
Of this fair mansion, master of my servants, 
Queen o'er myself; and even now, but now, 
This house, these servants, and this same myself, 
Are yours, my lord ; I give them with this ring. 

For the trial scene, that "master-piece of dramatic skill," as 
so much of its effect depends upon the "by-play, we resign our 
reader to the text — except for Portia's famous appeal to Shylock, 
which, apart from its circumstantial force, stands alone, one of the 
most beautiful of the " beauties of Shakspeare : " 

Por. The quality of mercy is not strain'd ; 
It droppeth, as the gentle rain from heaven 
Upon the place beneath ; it is twice bless'd : 
It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes. 
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest ; it becomes 
The throned monarch better than his crown ; 
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power, 
The attribute to awe and majesty, 
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings ; 
But mercy is above this sceptred sway — 
It is enthroned in the hearts of kings — 
It is an attribute to God himself; 
And earthly power doth then show likest God's 
When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew, 
Though justice be thy plea, consider this — 



PORTIA. 123 

That in the course of justice none of us 
Should see salvation. We do pray for mercy ; 
And that same prayer doth teach us all to render 
The deeds of mercy. 

Portia's wit, guiltless of malice, irreverence, or vulgar effort at 
display, is as fresh, hopeful, and light-hearted as her own elastic 
spirit. Her conversation with her maid, Nerissa, about the lovers 
who have come a-wooing, is incomparably lively and satirical, yet 
perfectly good-humored ; and not a few of her happy sallies have 
become proverbial. Of these we give but two : the first a por- 
trait, as true of the subject to-day as when Portia sketched it ; the 
second a titbit of moral philosophy, that will continue to be 
relished as long as a moral finger-post is left in the land : 



* * * * I'll hold thee any wager, 

When we are both accouter'd like young men, 

I'll prove the prettier fellow of the two, 

And wear my dagger with the braver grace ; 

And speak, between the change of man and boy, 

With a reed voice ; and turn two mincing steps 

Into a manly stride ; and speak of frays, 

Like a fine bragging youth ; and tell quaint lies — 

How honorable ladies sought my love, 

Which I denying, they fell sick and died ; 

I could not do with all. Then I'll repent, 

And wish, for all that, that I had not kill'd them; 

And twenty of these puny lies I'll tell, 

That men should swear I have discontinued school 

Above a twelvemonth : — I have within my mind 

A thousand raw tricks of these bragging Jacks, 

Which I will practise. 

If to do were as easy as to know what were good to 
do, chapels had been churches, and poor men's cottages 
princes' palaces. It is a good divine that follows his 



124 PORTIA. 

own instructions : I can easier teach twenty what were 
good to he done, than he one of the twenty to follow 
mine own teaching. 

As to her beauty, her goodness, and the fame of both — could 
any one doubt — we find abundant testimony in the followiug 



In Belmont is a lady richly left ; 

And she is fair, and, fairer than that word, 

Of wondrous virtues ; 

******** 

Her name is Portia — nothing undervalued 

To Cato's daughter, Brutus' Portia. 

Nor is the wide world ignorant of her worth ; 

For the four winds blow in from every coast 

Renowned suitors ; and her sunny locks 

Hang on her temples like a golden fleece — 

Which makes her seat of Belmont Colchos' strand, 

And many Jasons come in quest of her. 

******** 

* * * * All the world desires her : 

From the four corners of the earth they come, 

To kiss this shrine, this mortal breathing saint. 

The Hyrcanian deserts, and the vasty wilds 

Of wide Arabia, are as" through-fares now, 

For princes to come view fair Portia ; 

The wat'ry kingdom, whose ambitious head 

Spits in the face of heaven, is no bar 

To stop the foreign spirits ; but they come, 

As o'er a brook, to see fair Portia. 

******** 

Why, if two gods should play some heavenly match, 

And on the wager lay two earthly women, 

And Portia one, there must be something else 

Pawn'd with the other ; for the poor rude world 

Hath not her fellow. 



JESSICA. 

To our mind, Jessica, Shylock's " one fair daughter," is, in her 
filial aspect, neither a pleasing nor a truthful picture ; though it 
must be acknowledged that her derelictions from duty are com- 
mitted under extenuating circumstances. 

It is not for deceiving her father, so far as her love-affair 
with Lorenzo is concerned, that we dislike her ; nor for eloping 
from a home which, "by his graceless parsimony, and cold, forbid- 
ding harshness, he had made a " hell " to her ; but for the stealing 
of the ducats and the jewels — above all, the trading of a turquoise 
ring, her mother's love-gift to her father, for a monkey — we can 
find no excuse, no palliation, in the best-natured virtue ; theft is 
too mean a crime to be easily forgiven, especially in a heroine. 

Mrs. Jameson says of Jessica, that she has " a rich tinge of 
Orientalism shed over her, worthy her Eastern origin : " to us she 
betrays her race only in her characteristic love of gold, to which, 
amorous aud romantic as she is, she can give careful heed, even in 
the very act of eloping with her lover, by night and in disguise : 

Here, catch this casket ; it is icorth the pains. 
******** 
I will make fast the doors, and gild myself 
With some more ducats, and be with you straight. 



12b JESSICA. 

Lor. % * * * She hath directed 
How I shall take her from her father's house — 
What gold, and jewels, she is furnish'd with. 

Fancy Juliet, Silvia, or even little Anne Page, the two latter 
veritable " run-aways " from the paternal roof, damaging their fa- 
ther's coffers as well as his authority ! 

As for Jessica's conversion to the Christian religion, we put no 
faith in it : it is plain that she is as indifferent to the faith of her 
husband as she was to that of her father ; she would just as readily 
have become a Mohammedan, if her Lorenzo had sworn by Allah 
and the Prophet. 

Once married, however, Jessica assumes a more amiable aspect 
■ — her conjugal tenderness is very beautiful ; and the garden scene 
at Belmont, during the honeymoon of the young couple, is soulful 
enough to cover a multitude of meannesses ; Lorenzo is the most 
poetic of lovers, and for his sake we can almost pardon the epi- 
sode of the ducats : 

Lor. The moon shines bright : — In such a night as this, 
When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees, 
And they did make no noise — in such a night, 
Troilus, methinks, mounted the Trojan walls, 
And sigh'd his soul toward the Grecian tents, 
Where Cressid lay that night. 

Jes. In such a night, 

Did Thisbe fearfully o'ertrip the dew ; 
And saw the lion's shadow ere himself, 
And ran dismay'd away. 

Lor. In such a night, 

Stood Dido with a willow in her hand 
Upon the wild sea-banks, and wav'd her love 
To come again to Carthage. 

Jes. In such a night, 

Medea gather'd the enchanted herbs 
That did renew old iEson. 



JESSICA. 127 



Lor. In such a night, 

Did Jessica steal from the wealthy Jew ; 
And with an unthrift love did run from Venice, 
As far as Belmont. 

Jes. And in such a night, 

Did young Lorenzo swear he lov'd her well — 
Stealing her soul with many vows of faith, 
And ne'er a true one. 

Lor. And in such a night, 

Did pretty Jessica, lite a little shrew, 
Slander her love, and he forgave it her. 
******** 

How sweet the moon-light sleeps upon this bank ! 
Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music 
Creep in our ears ; soft stillness, and the night, 
Become the touches of sweet harmony. 
Sit, Jessica : Look how the floor of heaven 
Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold ! 
There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st 
But in his motion like an angel sings, 
Still quiring to the young-ey'd cherubins : 
Such harmony is in immortal souls ; 
But whilst this muddy vesture of decay 
Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it. 



PERDITA. 

Perdita, daughter of Leontes, king of Sicily, and his queen, 
the beautiful and excellent Hermione, was born in a prison, where- 
in her cruel father, in a fit of jealous rage, had confined his wife 
some time before the birth of Perdita. 

Leontes, suspecting Hermione of infidelity with his guest Polix- 
enes, king of Bohemia, ordered Camillo, one of his lords, to poison 
the latter. Camillo, however, believing his royal mistress to be 
most foully slandered, pretended to acquiesce in her husband's 
treacherous plot, only to disclose it to Polixenes ; whereupon they 
took flight together to Bohemia. It was at this juncture that Her- 
mione was cast into prison, where she eventually gave birth to a 
princess. 

Paulina, a brave friend of the queen's, bore the babe to its 
father, hoping thus to touch his heart, and avert his displeasure from 
the unhappy mother. But her devoted mission failed miserably ; 
the king commanded Antigonus, another of his lords, to take the 
child out to sea, and leave it to perish on some desolate shore. 

This time his orders were fulfilled : Antigonus left the babe, 
all swaddled in rich robes and bedecked with jewels, on a lonely 
" fishing coast " of Bohemia, whither a storm had driven the ship — 
17 



130 PERDITA. 

taking the precaution, however, of pinning a paper to the baby's 
mantle, with tlie name, Perdita, written thereon, and a line or two 
dimly significant of its illustrious birth. A humane shepherd found 
the poor little innocent, and took it home to his wife, who nursed 
it tenderly; his extreme poverty, dazzled by the rare jewels, 
induced him to keep secret the manner in which he found the 
child, and she was reared in every respect as his own daughter. 

Shakspeare gives proof of his loyal belief in " blood," in the 
sequel of this pretty tale. The royal foundling, reared in a shep- 
herd's hut, receiving almost none of the graces of education, queen 
only over flocks and herds, lived and moved a princess. 

The young Prince Florizel, only son of Polixenes, hunting one 
day near the shepherd's dwelling, saw the charming Perdita, and 
became desperately, but in all honor, enamoured of her high-born 
beauty. Under an assumed name, and in the guise of a simple 
gentleman, he paid court to her at once. 

Polixenes, remarking Florizel's frequent absence from court, 
set spies on the prince, who soon apprised him of his son's love for 
the fair shepherdess. Forthwith, he and Camillo visited in dis- 
guise the house of the old shepherd during the merry-making of 
sheep-shearing. Here the king discovered himself to his son, load- 
ed him with reproaches, and commanded Perdita never again to 
receive him, on pain of her own and her father's death. 

Camillo, anxious to return to his native land, rescued the lovers 
from the wrath of Polixenes, and accompanied them to the Sicilian 
court, to solicit Leontes' influence and protection till Polixenes 
should consent to their union. 

Leontes, full of remorse for the cruelty which, he supposed, had 
caused the death of his well-beloved queen, joyfully received Ca- 
millo back again to his favor, and made the young people welcome. 
The marvellous resemblance of Perdita to Hermione caused his 



PERDITA. lol 

heart to bleed afresh ; and his self-accusing ejaculations aroused 
the suspicions of the old shepherd, who produced the proofs of 
Perdita's identity with the deserted babe. 

Paulina, convinced of Leontes' repentance, invited him to her 
house to see a cunning statue from the hand of a great master. 
The statue was Hermione herself, whom, to protect her, Paulina 
had declared dead. Thus, a faithful wife was restored to the arms 
of her penitent husband, and the shepherd's foundling found a 
tender mother in the virtuous queen. 

Polixenes followed the fugitives to Sicily ; but there no longer 
existed any objection, personal or political, to the marriage of the 
Bohemian prince to the heiress of the throne of Sicily, and their 
union crowned the general rejoicing. 



Though the character of Perdita is quite subordinate to that 
of Hermione, the heroine proper of " The "Winter's Tale," it is, 
nevertheless, a carefully finished picture in every detail. Its deli- 
cate coloring is suggestive rather than simply descriptive, its subtile 
poetry conveyed to the beholder by master touches ; beside the 
glowing, life-size portraits of Juliet, Portia, and Lady Macbeth, 
this unique miniature gem sparkles half concealed, yet full of ex- 
quisite beauties. Perdita, perhaps, of all Shakspeare's heroines, is 
the completest exemplification of the intuitive lady, whose inbred 
daintiness no accident of life can affect. 

Frequent mention is made of her rare personal beauty, and not 
by her lover only. Florizel says to her, touching her gay holiday 
attire at the sheep-shearing : 

These, your unusual weeds, to each part of you 
Do give a life — no shepherdess, but Flora 



132 PERDITA. 

Peering in April's front ; this, your sheep-shearing, 
Is as a meeting of the petty gods, 
And you the queen on't. 

This rhapsody, too, is plainly something more than the mere 
extravagance of an ardent lover : 

What you do 
Still betters what is done. When you speak, sweet, 
Pd have you do it ever. When you sing, 
I'd have you buy and sell so, so give alms, 
Pray so, and for the ordering of your affairs 
To sing them too. When you do dance, I wish you 
A wave o' the sea, that you might ever do 
Nothing but that — move still, still so, and own 
No other function. 

* * * Were I crown'd the most imperial monarch, 

* * * Were I the fairest youth 

That ever made eye swerve, had force and knowledge 
More than was ever man's, I woidd not prize them 
Without her love : for her employ them all, 
Commend them, and condemn them to her service, 
Or to then- own perdition ! 

Polixenes himself pays an involuntary tribute to her charms . 

This is the prettiest low-born lass that ever 
Ran on the greensward ; notliiug she does, or seems, 
But smacks of something greater than herself, 
Too noble for this place. 

To which Camillo replies: 

* * * * Good sooth, she is 
The queen of curds and cream. 

Arrived with Florizel at the Sicilian court, one of the gentle- 
men says of her : 



PERDITA. 133 

* * * The most peerless piece of earth, I think, 
That e'er the sun shone bright on. 

And another : 

* * * * This is such a creature, 
Would she begin a sect, might quench the zeal 
Of all professors else — make proselytes 

Of who she but bid follow. 

Women will love her, that she is a woman 
More worth than any man ; men, that she is 
The rarest of all women. 

In Perdita's well known and oft-quoted greeting to the stranger- 
guests at the sheep-shearing, we have a fine example of her innate 
courtesy, as well as of the poetic delicacy of her fancy : 

***** Reverend sirs, 
For you there's rosemary and rue ; these keep 
Seeming and savor, all the winter long ; 
Grace and remembrance be to you both, 
And welcome to our shearing ! 

Here's flowers for you : 
Hot lavender, mints, savory, marjoram, 
The marigold, that goes to bed with the sun, 
And with him rises, weeping : these are flowers 
Of middle summer, and I think they are given 
To men of middle age. You are very welcome ! 

* * * Now, my fairest friend, 

I woidd I had some flowers o' the spring that might 

Become your time of day. ****** 

***** q Proserpina t 

For the flowers now that, frighted, thou let'st fall 

From Dis's wagon ! daffodils, 

That come before the swallow dares, and take 

The winds of March with beauty ; violets dim, 

But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes, 

Or Cytherea's breath ; pale primroses, 



134 PERDITA. 

That die unmarried, ere they can behold 
Bright Phoebus in his strength — a malady 
Most incident to maids ; bold oxlips, and 
The crown imperial ; lilies of all kinds, 
The flower-de-luce being one ! O, these I lack, 
To make you garlands of— and, my sweet friend, 
To strew him o'er and o'er. 

Flor. What? like a corse? 

Perd. No, like a bank, for love to lie and play on ; 
Not like a corse — or if, not to be buried, 
But quick, and in mine arms ! 

The simple dignity and exquisite tenderness of Perdita are 
"beautifully portrayed in one or two addresses to Florizel after his 
royal father has commanded them to part forever : 

Even here undone ! 
I was not much afeard ; for once or twice 
I was about to speak, and tell him plainly, 
The self-same sun that shines upon his court 
Hides not his visage from our cottage, but 
Looks on alike. Wilt please you, sir, begone ? 
I told you what would come of this. 'Beseech you, 
Of your own state take care : this dream of mine — 
Being now awake, I'll queen it no inch further, 
But milk my ewes, and weep. 



HERMIONE. 

Critically (though not popularly) considered, Hermione must 
ever occupy a position superior to Perdita in the charming story 
to which both contribute so much beauty. 

Endowed with every virtue that helps to complete the perfect 
woman, Hermione is distinguished by her illustrious resignation 
under the most grievous wrongs that can befall an honored queen, 
aud a devoted wife. Repudiated by her husband for senseless sus- 
picions of her chastity, conceived without an excuse of foundation ; 
thrown into prison, to give birth to a poor little princess ; her 
first-born son dying of grief for his mother's disgrace ; her infant 
condemned to death by its unnatural father ; herself put to public 
shame — a second Grissel, Hermione endures all with scarce a mur- 
mur ; not so much from patient love, however, as from an indomi- 
table fortitude, a grand pride in her conscious innocence, which has 
all the exalting effect of martyrdorn. 

To Hermione, daughter of an emperor, wife to a king, and 
mother of a "hopeful prince," a serene, majestic composure be- 
longs, as a birthright; and her soul is full of a repose as imper- 
turbable as her bearing is royal. She has no passions : no violent 
demonstrations, no tears nor reproaches, resent her lord's injustice ; 



136 HER M TONE. 

she is degraded, bu1 in her ignominy she is still a queen. Absorb- 
ing as are her affections as wife and mother, the blow thoj sutler 
appears on tin- surface in no more accusing shape than a sublime, 
heroic patience; charged openly with adultery and treason, in the 
midst of the court where she lias reigned a beloved and honored 
sovereign, her gracious lips can consent to frame no answer more 
ungentle than these touching words: 

How will this grieve yon. 
When you shall oome to clearer knowledge, that 
You thus have publish'd me V Gentle my lord, 
You BOaroe >'an right me throughly thou, to say 
You did mistake. 



There's some ill planet reigns : 
T must ho patient, till the heavens look 
With an aspect move favorable. — Good my lords, 

I am not prone to weeping, as our Bex 
Commonly are — the want of which vain dew, 
Perchance, shall dry your pities ; hut 1 have 
That honorable grief, lodgd here, which burns 
Worse than tears drown. 

Yet, though she can hide her 1 deeding heart away under the 
pall of a sorrow too grave for tears, though she can mourn her 
dearest loves as dead and make no sign, she may not thus proudly 
permit the filching o\' her good name — that inestimable dowry he- 
stowed upon her by illustrious ancestors, a precious heritage to he 
transmitted to her children's children ; and we feel that it is only 
in obedience to this lofty sense of duty that she condescends to 
justify herself — that she "stands to prate and talk before who 
please to come and hear." 

By a woman of common temper this accusation of infidelity 
would have been silently spurned, in the face of its terrible couse- 



ll E l: M l ■ EB. 181 

quencea the I" of ber bti band's love and the death of ber 
children; bul fco the spotle maje fcj of Hermione's soul a charge 
of di bonor, which she is not able fco disprove, is the very consum- 
mation of calamity; all th w — this is shame. 

The conrt scene, in the third act, of il elf suffices to afford a a 
truthful conception of Hermione's character. At a time when, 
from merely plr ici I rould be natural fco I"'.!: for emo- 

tion even in her, this unhappy queen i a calm a if b< were but 
a spectator, nol the arraigned culprit, of the imposing concourse 
assembled fco pronounce ber entence; ber "nerves" are adamanl ; 
her whole bearing bespeaks tli<- "queen o'er herself." Only when 
the oracle bas been flouted which declared ber chaste, and the 
death of her on is announced, does the heroic lady sink under her 
weighl of woe . 

Her appeal, not for pity nor for life, bul lor the re-establish- 
ment of her honor, i a model of dignified eloquence: 



***** Yon, my lord, '« 
(Who least will eem to do bo,) my past lift 
Hath been at continent, a chaste, a i true, 

r ow onhappy — which ia more 
Than hi tory <:m pattern, though devia'd, 
Ami pis | Pot behold rno, — 

A fellow of the royal bed, which owe 
A moiety of the throni liter, 

other to a hopeful prim ding, 

■ and tali for life and honor 'fore 
Who plea e to come and bear. For life, I prize it, 
i: which I would spare ; for honor — 
1 i ivative from me to mine, 
And only thai 1 Btand for. 
********* 

ESr, spare yonr threats ; 
'I b b ig, which y>n would fright m<; with, I 

18 



138 HERMIONE. 

To me can life be no commodity : 

The crown and comfort of my life, your favor, 

I do give lost — for I do feel it gone, 

But know not how it went ; my second joy, 

And first-fruits of my body, from his presence 

I am barr'd, like one infectious ; my third comfort, 

Star'd most unluckily, is from my breast, 

The innocent milk in its most innocent mouth, 

Haled out to murder ; myself on every post 

Proclaim'd a strumpet — with immodest hatred, 

The child-bed privilege denied, which 'longs 

To women of all fashion ; lastly, hurried 

Here to this place, i' the open air, before 

I have got strength of limit. Now, my liege, 

Tell me what blessings I have here, alive, 

That I should fear to die ? Therefore, proceed ; 

But yet hear this : mistake me not ; No ! life, 

I prize it not a straw ; — but for mine honor, 
(Which I would free,) if I shall be condemn'd 
Upon surmises — all proofs sleeping else, 
But what your jealousies awake — I tell you 
'Tis rigor, aud not law. 

That Hermione was a beautiful woman, of the regal, Juno-like 
type, is surely established by many passages let fall at random 
through the text. When a gentleman of the court enthusiastically 
extols Perdita's beauty, Paulina, champion of her mistress's memory 
as she ever has been zealous in her service, exclaims : 

O Hermione, 
As every present time doth boast itself 
Above a better gone, so must thy grave 
Give way to what's seen now. Sir, you yourself 
Have said, and writ so, (but your writing now 
Is colder than that theme,) She had not been, 
Nor was not to be, equcWd; — thus your verse 
Flow'd with her beauty once ; 'tis shrewdly ebb'd, 
To say you have seen a better. 



HERMIONE. 139 

Leon. Good Paulina, — 
Who hast the memory of Hermione, 
I know, in honor, — O, that ever I 
Had squar'd me to thy counsel ! — then, even now, 
I might have look'd upon my queen's full eyes, 
Have taken treasure from her lips, 

Paul. And left them 

More rich, for what they yielded. 
#*■##***** 

Leon. Stars, very stars, 

And all eyes else dead coals ! — fear thou no wife ; 
I'll have no wife, Paulina. 

And that Hermione was as excellent as she was beautiful is as 
well attested by the enduring respect and affection with which she 
is held in remembrance by her servants, and above all by her hus- 
band. One of his courtiers urges Leontes to marry — " to bless the 
bed of majesty again with a sweet fellow to 't;" but the wretched 
king can bear to think of no wife, save the one " done to death by 
sland'rous tongues : " 

Whilst I remember 
Her, and her«rirtues, I cannot forget 
My blemishes in them, and so still think of 
The wrong I did myself: which was so much, 
That heirless it hath made my kingdom, and 
Destroy'd the sweet'st companion that e'er man 
Bred his hopes out of. 

Paul. True, too true, my lord : 

If, one by one, you wedded all the world — 
Or, from the all that are took something good, 
To make a perfect woman — she you kill'd 
Would be unparallel'd. 

Leon. I think so. Kill'd ! 

She I kill'd ? I did so ; but thou strik'st me 
Sorely, to say I did ; it is as bitter 
Upon thy tongue as in my thought. 



140 HERMIONE. 

Paul. There is none worthy, 

Respecting her that's gone. 
********** 

Leon. Thou sj)eak'st truth : 

No more such wives ; therefore, no wife. 

The final, or " statue," scene — in which, after sixteen years of 
strict seclusion, she is restored to her husband, and the daughter 
who had "been miraculously preserved to Mess her patient heart — ■ 
is one of the most effective in dramatic story. 

If any thing could persuade us to forgive Leontes his unworthy 
doubts of such a woman as Hermione, it would be the sincere emo- 
tion he displays whilst gazing on what he believes to be the won 
drous statue of his wife : 

Her natural posture ! — 

Chide me, dear stone, that I may say, indeed, 

Thou art Hermione ; or, rather, thou art she 

In thy not chiding ; for she was as tender 

As infancy and grace. — But yet, Paulina, 

Hermione was not so much wrinkled, nothing 

So aged, as this seems. 
Pol. O, not by much. # 

Paul. So much the more our carver's excellence, 

Which lets go by some sixteen years, and makes her 

As she liv'd now. 

Leon. As now she might have done — 

So much to my good comfort, as it is 

Now piercing to my soul. O, thus she stood, 

Even with such life of majesty, (warm life, 

As now it coldly stands,) when first I woo'd her ! 

I am asham'd : Does not the stone rebuke me, 

For being more stone than it ? — O, royal piece, ' 

There's magic in thy majesty, which has 

My evils conjur'd to remembrance, and 

From thy admiring daughter took the spirits, 

Standing like stone with thee ! 



HERMIONE. 141 

Leon. Do not draw the curtain. 

Paul. No longer shall you gaze on 't, lest your fancy 
May think anon it moves. 

Leon. Let be, let he ! 

Would I were dead, but that, methinks, already — 
What was he, that did make it ? — See, my lord, 
Would you not deem it breath'd ? and that those veins 
Did verily bear blood ? 

Pol. Masterly done ! 

The very life seems warm upon her lip. 

Leon. The fixture of her eye has motion in't, 
As we are mock'd with art. 

Paul. I'll draw the cm-tain ; 

My lord's almost so far transported that 
He'll think anon it lives. 

Leon. O sweet Paulina, 

Make me to think so twenty years together ; 
No settled senses of the world can match 
The pleasure of that madness. Let 't alone. 

Paul. I am sorry, sir, I have thus far stir'd you ; but 
I could afflict you further. 

Leon. Do, Paulina ; 

For this affliction has a taste as sweet 
As any cordial comfort. — Still, methinks, 
There is an air comes from her : What fine chisel 
Could ever yet cut breath ? Let no man mock me — 
For I will kiss her. 

Paul. Good my lord, forbear : 

The ruddiness upon her lip is wet ; 
You'll mar it, if you kiss it — stain your own 
With oily painting : Shall I draw the curtain ? 
Leon. No, not these twenty years. 



MISTRESS FORD 

Misteess Alice Ford is one of the two " Merry "Wives of 
Windsor" whose mischievous pranks constitute the material for 
that very amusing, hut somewhat too coarse, comedy. Sir John 
Falstaff, sojourning in Windsor, proposes to engage in certain amo- 
rous speculations with the wives of two well-to-do citizens, for his 
own pecuniary "benefit. He accordingly indites love-letters to those 
jovial dames, who, being fast friends, at once inform each other of 
the audacious affront offered to their virtue, and together contrive 
a suitable revenge. By their excellent devices Falstaff is encour- 
aged in both his suits, only to be betrayed into a series of humil- 
iating situations, to the effect of which Master Ford, the jealous 
spouse of our quick-witted heroine, materially contributes by his 
counter-plotting, as well as by the punishment he receives for 
his groundless suspicions of his wife's virtue. 

The underplot of the play is admirably sustained by the sen- 
timental enterprises of three suitors for the hand of " Sweet Anne 
Page," daughter of Mistress Page, the famous coadjutor and fel- 
low-sufferer of Mistress Ford ; and Mistress Quickly, who, to her 
" respectable " calling of woman-of-all-work in a bachelor's estab- 
lishment, adds the more questionable profession of go-between in 



ISTRESS FORD. 



all the amorous affairs— honorable or to the contrary — of her vil 
lage, plays no insignificant part in the laughable conspiracies of 
which the comedy consists. 



The piquant original of these speaking "presentments" of 
Mistresses Ford and Page, existed, we have reason to believe, in 
the person of the beautiful Mrs. Davenant, hostess of the Crown 
Inn at Oxford, in whose sprightly company the Poet spent so 
many merry hours on his journeys from London to Stratford. 

"Without displaying any of those dainty refinements of char- 
acter and manner which must always enter into one's ideas of a 
lady, Mistress Ford commands our good-natured sympathy by her 
many happy traits : her kindness of heart, her sound sense, her 
lively temper, and a certain jovial heartiness which pervades every 
thing she does or says. 

To her conjugal honesty, so ill rewarded by her provoking 
husband, we pay a tribute of respect as genuine, if not so exalted, 
as that elicited by the more poetic chastity of the Princess Imo- 
gen ; and it must be conceded that, notwithstanding the sacrifice 
of dramatic effect, her manner of punishing the " greasy knight " 
is far more practically sensible than provoking a duel to heal 
her wounded honor, or sacrificing her life to prove her husband a 
fool. 

It is plain that Mistress Ford is a buxom beauty, in a state of 
remarkable preservation — " fat, fair," and very near " forty," but 
blest with the elastic spirits attendant on that robust health which 
makes English matrons the finest in the world. Allowing ample 
latitude for exaggeration, this matchless harangue of Gossip Quick- 
ly, on the importunities suffered by the handsome Merry Wife, 



MISTRESS FORD. 145 

quite glibly testifies to her exceeding comeliness, and suggests a 
very possible coquetry on her part, sufficient to avert from her 
poor, dear Ford a little of the contempt he appears to merit : 

Fal. Well ! Mistress Ford :— what of her ? 
******** 

Quick. Marry, this is the short and the long of it : 
you have brought her into such a canaries, as 'tis won- 
derful ; the best courtier of them all, when the court 
lay at Windsor, could never have brought her to such a 
canary. Yet there has been knights, and lords, and gen- 
tlemen with their coaches — I warrant you, coach after 
coach, letter after letter, gift after gift — smelling so 
sweetly, (all musk,) and so rushling, I warrant you, in 
silk and gold ; and in such alligant terms ; and in such 
wine and sugar of the best, and the fairest, that woidd 
have won any woman's heart ; and I warrant you, they 
could never get an eye-wink of her. — I had myself twen- 
ty angels given me this morning ; but I defy all angels, 
(in any such sort, as they say,) but in the way of hon- 
esty : — and, I warrant you, they could never get her so 
much as sip on a cup with the proudest of them all ; and 
yet there has been earls, nay, which is more, pensioners ; 
but, I warrant you, all is one with her. 

For a nicer personal description, though with even more lib- 
eral allowance for the flattery of the would-be gallant knight, we 
transcribe the first love-scene between him and the Merry Wife : 

Fal. Save I caught thee, my heavenly jewel ? Why, 
now let me die, for I 'have lived long enough ; this is the 
period of my ambition. — O this blessed hour ! 

Mrs. Ford. O sweet Sir John ! 

Fal. Mistress Ford, I cannot cog ; I cannot prate, Mis- 
tress Ford. Now shall I sin in my wish : I would thy 
husband were dead ; I'll speak it before the best lord — 
I would make thee my lady. 

Mrs. Ford. I your lady, Sir John ! Alas, I should be 
a pitiful lady. 
19 



146 MISTRESS FORD. 

Fal. Let the court of France show me such another ; 
I see how thine eye would emulate the diamond; thou 
hast the right arched bent of the brow, that becomes the 
ship-tire, the tire-valiant, or any tire of Venetian admit- 
tance. 

Mrs. Ford. A plain kerchief, Sir John : my brows be- 
come nothing else ; nor that well neither. 

Fal. Thou art a traitor to say so : thou would'st make 
an absolute courtier ; and the firm fixture of thy foot 
• would give an excellent motion to thy gait, in a semi- 
circled farthingale. I see what thou wert, if Fortune 
thy foe were not ; Nature is thy friend : — Come, thou canst 
not hide it. 

Mrs. Ford. Believe me, there's no such thing in me. 

Fal. What made me love thee ? Let that persuade 
thee there's something extraordinary in thee. * * 



MISTRESS PAGE. 

By closely studying the characters of Mistress Page and Mis- 
tress Ford, one may detect a distinction, but it is a distinction 
almost without a difference. They are women of about the same 
age, the same position in life, of very similar temperaments and 
tastes— social, merry-hearted, fond 'of broad jests, but none the 
less chaste for that — and, moreover, friends, of long and confiden- 
tial intimacy. It is certainly clear that Mistress Page is quite 
subordinate to Mistress Ford in the contrivance and execution of 
the novel self-avenging which has made them famous : it is Mis- 
tress Ford who grants Falstaff an interview at her own house dur- 
ing her husband's absence, and then sends him off, concealed in a 
basket of soiled linen, to be "dumped" into a fold ditch; it is 
Mistress Ford who, with excuses and cajolery, induces him to re- 
peat his amorous visit, only to betray him to a sound drubbing 
from her enraged lord ; and still Mistress Ford, who accords him 
an assignation in Windsor Park, and allows him one treacherous 
embrace before the dire consiunmation which occurs there. 

We conclude, however, that this superior boldness on the part 
of Mistress Ford arises, not from a character dissimilar in that re- 
spect to that of Mistress Page, but rather from the constant 



U8 MISTRESS PAGE. 

temptation she finds in her husband's jealousy, to play upon his 
weakness ; as she says to her friend : 

I know not which pleases me better — that my husband 
is deceiv'd, or Sir John. 



And affain : 



******* 
O that my husband saw this letter ! it 

m.l frtnrl tn his ipnlmisir 



would give eternal food to his jealousy 



Mistress Page, on the other hand, is evidently serious in her 
resentful reception of the insulting missive ; her comments, as she 
reads it, are full of indignation, unalloyed by a trace of vanity : 

What ! have I 'scaped love letters in the holiday time 
of my beauty, and am I now a subject for them ? Let 



What a Herod of Jewry is this ? — O wicked, wicked 
world ! — one that is well-nigh worn to pieces with age, to 
show himself a young gallant ! What an unweighed be- 
havior hath this Flemish drunkard picked (with the devil's 
name) out of my conversation, that he dares in this man- 
ner assay me ? Why, he hath not been thrice in my 
company ! — What should I say to him ? — I was then fru- 
gal of my mirth : — Heaven forgive me !— Why, I'll ex- 
hibit a bill in the parliament for the putting down of 
men. How shall I be revenged on him ? for revenged I 
will be. 

Contrast this with Mistress Ford's jolly doiiUe-entendre-s — though 
she becomes serious enough when she discovers that Falstaff is 
not even honest in his infamous overtures : 

Mrs. Ford. O woman, if it were not for one trifling 
respect, I could come to such honor 1 



MISTRESS PAGE. 149 

Mrs. Page. Hang the trifle, woman ; take the honor. 
What is it ! — dispense with trifles ; — what is it ? 

Mrs. Ford. If I would but go to hell for an eternal 
moment or so, I could be knighted. 
********** 

Here, read, read ! 
— perceive how I might be knighted. — I shall think the 
worse of fat men as long as I have an eye to make 
difference of men's liking. And yet he would not swear, 
praised women's modesty, and gave such orderly and 
well-behaved reproof to all nncomeliness, that I would 
have sworn bis disposition would have gone to the truth 
of his words. 

How shall I be 
revenged on him ? I think the best way were to enter- 
tain him with hope. ***** 

Mrs. Page. Letter for letter — but that the name of 
Page and Ford differs ! — To thy great comfort in this 
mystery of ill opinions, here's the twin-brother of thy 
letter : but let thine inherit first ; for I protest mine 
never shall. I warrant he hath a thousand of these let- 
ters, writ with blank space for different names, (sure 
more ;) and these are of the second edition. 
* * * * * * * * * * 

Mrs. Ford. Why this is the very same — the very 
hand, the very words ! What doth he think of ns ? 

Mrs. Page. Nay, I know not ; it makes me almost 
ready to wrangle with mine own honesty. I'll entertain 
myself like one that I am not acquainted withal. 

Let's be revenged on him ; 
let's appoint him a meeting, give him a show of comfort 
in his suit, and lead him on with a fine baited delay, till 
he hath pawn'd his horses to mine host of The Garter. 

Mrs. Ford. Nay, I will consent to act any villainy 
against him, that may not sully the chariness of our 
honesty. 



ANNE PAGE. 

" Sweet Anne Page " is one of tliose rare bits of poetic sketch- 
ing which, with scarcely a defined outline, and not a touch of vivid 
coloring, leave on the fancy an indelible impression of refined 
beauty. 

In her graceful quiet, her lady-liie reserve, her pretty, modest 
ways, she is so far removed from those among whom we find her, 
and whose coarse good-humor, and cordial, homely virtues, are ut- 
terly devoid of taste or delicate sentiment, that we may almost re- 
gard her as a second Perdita — a gem of the first water, shining all 
the more brightly for the roughness of its setting. 

The subtile, indescribable charm which accompanies this 
"pretty virginity" is evidently felt by her coarse companions, 
without being perceived or understood by them. Of her three 
lovers, two of them — the half-witted booby, Slender, (with whom, 
nevertheless, originated her inseparable surname, "Sweet,") and 
the old French doctor, Caius — cannot be supposed to have the 
faintest appreciation of her character, however profoundly they 
may be impressed by her first-rate gentihty and her father's money- 
bags. "We do not wonder, then, that her maiden preference is be- 
stowed on " young Master Fenton, who dances, has eyes of youth, 



152 ANNE PAGE. 

writes verses, speaks holiday, smells April and May, lias kept com- 
pany with the wild prince, and is of too high a region " for her ; 
in the one glimpse allowed ns of tlieir love-making, there is, in her 
two brief replies to Fenton's appeals, a delightful touch of uncon- 
scious coquetry. In the " why then," at the end, how much of 
vague hope, fear, delicious uncertainty, for the nice distinctions of 
a lover's heart : 

Fent. I see I cannot get thy father's love ; 
Therefore no more turn me to him, sweet Nan. 

Anne. Alas ! how then ? 

Fent. Why, thou must he thyself. 

He doth object I am too great of birth ; 
And that, my state being gall'd with my expense, 
I seek to heal it only by his wealth. 
Besides these, other bars he lays before me — 
My riots past, my wild societies — 
And tells me 'tis a thing impossible 
I should love thee, but as a property. 

Anne. May be, he tells you true. 

Fent. No, Heaven so speed me in my time to come ! 
Albeit, I will confess, thy father's wealth 
Was the first motive that I woo'd thee, Anne ; 
Yet, wooing thee, I found thee of more value 
Than stamps in gold, or sums in sealed bags ; 
And 'tis the very riches of thyself 
That now I aim at. 

Anne. Gentle Master Fenton, 

Tet seek my father's love ; still seek it, sir : 
If opportunity and humblest suit 
Cannot attain it — why then. 

But alas for the boasted guilelessness of this most innocent of 
maids ! Love teaches even her shyness to be bold, and insinuates 
deceitful invention into that heart where loyal obedience and sub- 
mission to parental will would seem to have built their throne : 
pretending to acquiesce in the contending views of both her father 



ANNE PAGE. 153 

and her mother, she plays them false, to consummate her own fond 
designs. Her stratagem, in which she shows herself not inferior 
in ready wit to the Merry Wives, is thus described "by Fenton to 
mine host of the Garter Inn : 



From time to time I have acquainted you 
With the dear love I bear to fair Anne Page, 
Who, mutually, hath answer'd my affection 
(So far forth as herself might be her chooser,) 
Even to my wish. I have a letter from her, 
Of such contents as you will wonder at— 
The mirth whereof so larded with rny matter, 
That neither, singly, can be manifested 
Without the show of both — wherein fat Falstaff 
Hath a great scene ; the image of the jest 

[Showing the letter. 
I'll show you here at large. Hark, good mine host ! 
To-night at Heme's oak, just 'twixt twelve and one, 
Must my sweet Nan present the fairy queen — 
The purpose why is here ; in which disguise, 
While other jests are something rank on foot, 
Her father hath commanded her to slip 
Away with Slender, and with him at Eton 
Immediately to marry : she hath consented. 
Now, sir, 

Her mother, even strong against that match, 
And firm for Dr. Caius, hath appointed 
That he shall likewise shuffle her away, 
While other sports are tasking of their minds, 
And at the deanery, where a priest attends, 
Straight marry her ; to this her mother's plot 
She, seemingly obedient, likewise hath 
Made promise to the doctor. — Now thus it rests : 
Her father means she shall be all in white ; 
And in that habit, when Slender sees his time 
To take her by the hand, and bid her go, 
She shall go with him. Her mother hath intended, 
The better to denote her to the doctor, 
(For they must all be masked and vizarded,) 
20 



154 ANNE PAGE. 

That, quaint in green, she shall be loose enrob'd, 
With ribands pendant, flaring 'bout her head ; 
And when the doctor spies his vantage ripe, 
To pinch her by the hand — and, on that token, 
The maid hath given consent to go with him. 

Host. Which means she to deceive ? father or mother ? 

Fent. Both, my good host, to go along with me ; 
And here it rests — that you'll procure the vicar 
To stay for me at church, 'twixt twelve and one, 
And, in the lawful name of marrying, 
To give our hearts united ceremony. 

And as lovers 1 excuses for their own misdemeanors are always 
the best, we cannot do better for our sweet Anne Page than to 
quote the plea of that plausible young Fenton : 

The offence is holy that she hath committed, 

And this deceit loses the name of craft, 

Of disobedience, or unduteous title ; 

Since therein she doth evitate and shun 

A thousand irreligious cursed hours, 

Which forced marriage would have brought upon her. 



ISABELLA. 

Isabella of Vienna, a novice of the Sisterhood of St. Clare, 
was the sister of Claudio, a young man under sentence of death 
for having seduced a lady betrothed to him in marriage. 

Vicentio, the reigning Duke of Vienna, becoming conscious of 
an injudicious clemency in his administration of the laws, appoint- 
ed Lord Angelo his deputy, and, pretending to set out, incognito, 
on a long journey, remained in his dukedom, disguised as a friar, 
to take personal note of the effect produced on his people "by the 
severe discipline of an austere ruler. 

Claudio chanced to be the first detected in the violation of a 
law which, from long neglect to enforce it, had become a dead let- 
ter ; and to establish an example for the salutary contemplation 
of its many outragers, Angelo, without hesitation, condemned him 
to die. 

Isabella, who was on the point of taking the veil in the con- 
vent where she had served her novitiate, being sent for by her 
brother, abandoned her strict seclusion, to implore his pardon at the 
feet of Angelo, who at first was inexorable ; but, seeniing-virtuous 
as he was, he finally became enamoured of the beautiful vestal, and 
offered her Claudio's life in exchange for her honor. His vile pro- 



156 ISABELLA. 

posal was indignantly rejected ; and in recounting to her brother 
in prison, the details of the insult, Isabella was overheard by the 
duke, who, as a friar, had visited Claudio to administer the conso- 
lations of religion, and to acquaint himself with the facts of the 
case. On parting from her brother, Isabella was accosted by the 
friar, who bade her seem to acquiesce in Angelo's proposition, and 
appoint him an assignation at night, taking every precaution, how- 
ever, to insure strict secrecy ; and he promised that he would pro- 
cure a substitute for her, in the person of Mariana, a young lady 
to whom Angelo had been betrothed, who still loved him, whom 
he had deserted on some dishonorable pretext, but whom he 
would be compelled to marry after this visit — such being the friar's 
motive for interference. 

Isabella consented to this subterfuge, the more readily that it 
was advised by a holy father ; and it was accordingly executed as 
the duke had proposed. Angelo, however, with a treachery to be 
expected from his hypocritical sanctity, although he confidently 
believed that he had won the immaculate Isabella, resolved not to 
fulfil the terms of his own infamous bargain — he feared the ven- 
geance of Claudio, the order for whose immediate execution was 
now set aside only through the intervention of the friar, who pro- 
duced the duke's signet as evidence of his superior authority. 

The return of Vicentio was then proclaimed throughout the 
city of Vienna ; and all persons having grievances to complain of 
against the State were commanded to make public declaration of 
them before the duke. 

Isabella, who believed that her brother had been executed, 
notwithstanding Angelo's promise to her, was the first to enter 
complaint against that corrupt judge ; whereupon, after some in- 
tricate preliminaries, the lord deputy's wickedness was exposed, 
and he was forced to make restitution to the wronged but faithful 



ISABELLA. 157 

Mariana, by marrying her. Claudio, pardoned by the duke, was 
united to the victim of his selfish passion ; and, finally, the spot- 
less Isabella was created Duchess of Vienna by Vicentio, whose 
gracious preference she had won by her uncompromising virtue. 



The character of Isabella presents a notable example of the 
inefncacy of a purely intellectual virtue to command our sympathy 
or admiration, or in any way to advance the cause of Religion. 

In critical, as well as popidar, appreciation, Isabella occupies a 
position of cool toleration — although in some opinions she has 
risen from that questionable status, to be denominated " an angel 
of light," and by another order of minds has been assailed with 
vituperative violence, as a coarse, vixenish prude. The prudent 
preservation of a temperate course, between these two exaggera- 
tions, will perhaps be the shortest and the surest road to strict jus- 
tice toward one who would, herself, desire no more. 

Cold, faultless, severe in moral rectitude, not liable to the 
weaknesses which " make the whole world kin," and utterly inca- 
pable of sympathy for them, this religieu-se stands, in a manner, 
arrayed against her fellows : existing, not only physically, but mor- 
ally, apart from them, permitting herself no tie of reciprocal feel- 
ing to keep her united with the human family — the type of a class 
of mistaken but sincere religionists of all sects, who, by their re- 
pulsive self-sufficiency, fatally subvert the very interests to which 
they have consecrated their lives. 

Isabella is no hypocrite — that is, consciously ; her flawless ex- 
cellence commands our exalted respect, our honorable recognition, 
however it may repel anymore enthusiastic admiration; to the 
impregnability of her chastity, the prominent feature of her 



158 ISABELLA. 

strongly marked individuality, full honor must be awarded ; yet 
self-sacrifice, without a reservation, has become so inseparably asso- 
ciated with all that is most lovable in woman, that it would have 
been far easier to forgive the actual offence, than conscientiously 
to applaud her moral grandeur, remembering the beautiless de- 
tails of her victory. 

We do not " doubt the angelic purity of Isabella ; " and, but 
for the instance of eccentric depravity furnished by her lover An- 
gelo, we should believe only one event to be less possible than her 
" lapse from virtue " — that, notwithstanding her beauty, it should 
ever have sustained a temptation. 

Isabella's complaints of the too lax discipline of her order are 
construed by her panegyrist, Mrs. Jameson, to signify that she de- 
sires a " more strict restraint," " from the consciousness of strong 
intellectual and imaginative power, and of overflowing sensibility" 
in herself, which require it. With all respect, we would suggest 
that this " very virtuous maid " is supplied with the latter quali- 
ties only from the abundant stores of the accomplished authoress 
herself. Isabella's strong intellectual power no one questions — 
it is conclusively established in her logical tilt of wits with the 
lord deputy ; but of imagination, or sensibility, she is as destitute 
as an Audrey. Her appetite for severer penances and sharper mor- 
tifications is natural to the morbid devotee — and by no means pe- 
culiar to her, or of any special significance. 

The austerity of Isabella's heart and soul, as well as of her out- 
ward life — her freedom from emotion, almost incredible in one so 
young — cannot be better illustrated than by the dialogue between 
her and Angelo, wherein she proves her dreadful insensibility to 
the peril of her brother's situation by the cool, self-possessed, equi- 
poised arguments with which she pleads for him. It is plain that 
her words are doing violence to her convictions, that in sums: for 



ISABELLA. 159 

his pardon she is conscious of wronging her rigid conscientious- 
ness ; and she is quite willing to retire, on the slightest pretext, 
and leave justice triumphant over the mercy for which she argues 
— even over the life of her wretched "brother : 

Isab. I am a woeful suitor to your honor, 
Please but your honor hear me. 

Ang. Well ; what's your suit ? 

Isab. There is a vice that most I do abhor, 
And most desire should meet the blow of justice — 
For which I would not plead, but that I must — 
For which I must not plead, but that I am 
At war 'twixt will, and will not. 

Ang. Well ; the matter ? 

Isab. I have a brother is condemn'd to die : 
I do beseech you, let it be his fault, 
And not my brother. 

Ang. Condemn the fault, and not the actor of it ! 
Why, every fault's condemn'd ere it be done : 
Mine were the very cipher of a function, 
To find the faults whose fine stands in record, 
And let go by the actor. 

Isab. O just, but severe law ! 

I had a brother then. — Heaven keep your honor ! 

[Retiring. 

Imcio'. [To Isab.] Give't not o'er so ; to him again, 
entreat him ; 
Kneel down before him, hang upon his gown ; 
Tou are too cold : if you should need a pin, 
You could not with more tame a tongue desire it. 
To him, I say ! 

Isab. Must he needs die ? 

Ang. Maiden, no remedy. 

Isab. Yes ; I do think that you might pardon him, 
And neither heaven nor man grieve at the mercy. 
********* 

Ang. He's sentenc'd ; 'tis too late. 

Isab. Too late ? why, no ; I that do speak a word 
May call it back again : Well, believe this : 



160 ISABELLA 

No ceremony that to great ones 'longs, 
Not the king's crown, nor the deputed sword, 
The marshal's truncheon, nor the judge's robe, 
Become them with one half so good a grace 
As mercy does. 

* * * O, it is excellent 

To have a giant's strength ; but it is tyrannous 

To use it like a giant. 

Her interview with her brother in prison is even more charac- 
teristic : her first speech to him, when, agonized with suspense, he 
awaits the issue of her prayers to the lord deputy, is almost incon- 
ceivably harsh and unwomanly ; Isabella tricks out the fatal intel- 
ligence in a sustained figure, substitutes rhetoric for the consoling 
tenderness of a sister, and a sister of charity : 

Claud. Now, sister, what's the comfort ? 

Isab. Why, as all comforts are — most good indeed. 
Lord Angelo, having affairs to heaven, 
Intends you for his swift embassador, 
Where you shall be an everlasting lieger : 
Therefore your best appointment make with speed — 
To-morrow you set on. 

Claud. Is there no remedy ? 

Isab. None, but such remedy as, to save a head, 
To cleave a heart in twain. 

Claud. But is there any ? 

Isab. Yes, brother, you may live ; 
There is a devilish mercy in the judge, 
If you'll implore it, that will free your life, 
But fetter you till death. 
******** 

Claud. Thou shalt not do 't. 

Isab. O, were it but my life, 
I'd throw it down for your deliverance 
As frankly as a pin. 

Claud. Thanks, dear Isabel. 

Isab. Be ready, Claudio, for your death to-morrow. 



ISABELLA. 161 

Claud. Yes. — Has lie affections in him, 
That thus can make him bite the law by the nose, 
When he would force it ? Sure it is no sin ; 
Or of the deadly seven it is the least. 

Isab. Which is the least ? 

Claud. If it were damnable, he being so wise, 
Why would he for the momentary trick 
Be perdurably fin'd ? — O Isabel ! 

Isab. What says my brother ? 

Claud. Death is a fearful thing — 

Isab. And shamed life a hateful. 

******** 

Claud. Sweet sister, let me live : 

What sin you do to save a brother's life, 
Nature dispenses with the deed so far 
That it becomes a virtue. 

Isab. O you beast ! 

O faithless coward ! O dishonest wretch ! 
Wilt thou be made a man out of my vice ? 
****** ** 

* * * * Take my defiance. 
Die, perish ! might but my bending down 
Reprieve thee from thy fate, it should proceed : 
I'll pray a thousand prayers for thy death, 
No word to save thee. 










' " 



CLEOPATRA. 

This world-renowned princess was the daughter of Ptolemy 
Auletes, king of Egypt, at whose death, she, with her brother, 
ascended the throne. The motif of Shakspeare's play, of which she 
is the heroine, consists of the episode, with its final catastrophe, of 
her intrigue with Mark Antony, the Eoman hero — com m encing 
with his first visit to Alexandria, whither he had followed Cleopa- 
tra after that triumphant excursion to Tarsus, so glowingly de- 
scribed in the text : 

The barge she sat in, like a burnish'd throne, 

Burn'd on the water : the poop was beaten gold ; 

Purple the sails, and so perfumed that 

The winds were love-sick with them ; the oars were silver, 

Which to the tune of flutes kept stroke, and made 

The water, which they beat, to follow faster, 

As amorous of their strokes. For her own person, 

It beggar'd all description : she did he 

In her pavilion, (cloth of gold, of tissue,) 

O'er-picturing that Venus, where we see 

The fancy outwork nature ; on each side her 

Stood pretty dimpled boys, like smiling Cupids, 

With divers-color'd fans, whose wind did seem 

To glow the delicate cheeks which they did cool, 

And what they undid, did. 



164 CLEOPATRA. 



Her gentlewomen, like the Nereides, 
So many mermaids, tended her i' the eyes, 
And made their bends adornings ; at the helm 
A seeming mermaid steers ; the silken tackle 
Swell with the touches of those flower-soft hands, 
That yarely frame the oflice. From the barge 
A strange invisible perfume hits the sense 
Of the adjacent wharfs. 

Here, in the palace of the Ptolemies, abandoning himself to the 
fascinations of his imperial mistress, and the bewildering revels 
with which she besotted and enchained him, the " triple pillar of 
the world " forgot his glory, his wife, and his country. One day, 
however, in the midst of his ignoble ease, messengers from Rome 
arrived at the Egyptian court, with tidings for Antony of internal 
wars at home, and of the death of his wife, Fulvia. This intelli- 
gence awakening his patriotism and his remorse, he shook off his 
sensual sloth and returned at once to Rome, to find Octavius 
Csesar, one of his associate triumvirs, highly incensed by the rumors 
which had reached them of his dishonorable self-indulgence, while 
his wife, Fulvia, " to have him out of Egypt" at any cost, had been 
waging war against Caesar. In a spirit of true penitence, Antony 
acknowledged his criminal remissness ; and, to renew their friendly 
relations the more securely, he married the virtuous Octavia, 
Caesar's sister. 

But internal jealousies soon again divided their interests ; and 
Octavia having left her husband to visit her brother in Rome, for 
the purpose of reconciling them once more, Antony rejoined Cleo- 
patra in Alexandria, with imposing ceremonials bestowed upon her 
a large addition to her dominions, and proclaimed his sons by her 
" the kings of kings." 

"War between Antony and Caesar was now hotly waged, to be 



CLEOPATRA. 165 

finally decided by a naval contest at Actium ; where, by a mere 
accident, Antony lost the day, and fled to Egypt. He offered 
various terms of capitulation to Caesar; but that victorious hero 
would content himself with nothing less than the death of the man 
who had outraged his sister's honor, and scoffed at his avenging 
power ; he, however, sent secret messages to Cleopatra, assuring 
her of his protection if she would give up her lover. The artful 
queen pretended to receive these advances with humble gratitude, 
and Antony, apprised of her conduct, suspected and accused her 
of treachery toward himself. 

To dissipate his doubts of her constancy, Cleopatra betook 
herself, with her women, to a tower, which she had erected as 
her monument, and, as a final stroke of coquetry, caused it to be 
reported that she had killed herself. Antony, in despair at the 
news of her death, threw himself upon his sword, just as Cleopatra, 
fearful of the effect of her artifice, had sent to contradict the dan- 
gerous tidings ; he ordered his attendants to bear him into her 
presence, and died in her arms. 

Caesar, thus robbed of half his triumph, resolved to secure Cleo- 
patra as a captive and a trophy, to glorify his return to Rome. 
Through her maternal pride and affection he prevented her from 
starving herself ; but when she found that he was proof against 
her charms, and learned beyond doubt for what ignominious pur- 
pose she was spared, she procured an asp, and died of its venom- 
ous bite — her faithful attendants sharing her fate. 



Eternal and unfading as the glory of her Egyptian skies, this 
" serpent of old Nile " shall unwind her coils from about the hearts 
of men, only when Time shall cease to be. Her spells, as potent 



166 CLEOPATRA. 

to-day as when she reigned, a score of centuries since, survive the 
subtle enchantress from whom they emanated, to mock us with 
something of her own imperial coquetry, when we fain would shut 
our eyes against their dazzling charms, and bring our steady reason 
to bear upon her intrinsic claims to admiration and respect. 

The very faults of Cleopatra, emblazoned with all the mystic 
extravagance of Eastern story, constitute her most fatal fascina- 
tion ; they bewilder one's moral sense, overwhelm it with kaleido- 
scopic brilliancies, tinge its grave conclusions with the spirit of 
their maddest intoxication, till, like Mark Antony, we find our- 
selves wondering, applauding, paying participating tribute, where 
we had thought to sit in austere judgment. 

Complexity, contradiction, "infinite variety," instantaneous 
transmutations, are the exponents of Cleopatra's character ; she is 
consistent only in being inconsistent — each particular idiosyncrasy, 
keen, flashing, meteoric, is "like the lightning, which doth cease 
to be, ere we can say It lightens." "With towering, audacious con- 
sciousness of power, she one moment challenges our contempt, 
by the coarse wrangling of a vixenish temper, only the more abso- 
lutely to compel our recognition of her royal elegance and classic 
grace, the next ; she unites in herself all that is luxurious in volup- 
tuousness, unscrupulous in the gratification of passion, reckless in 
the procurement of debasing pleasure, and insolent in self-assertion, 
with rare intellect, superior attainments, and elegant accomplish- 
ments, a lively and intense imagination, magnificent tastes, a 
grand, self-reliant spirit, a warm, generous heart, and a perfection 
in the art of coquetry never attained by woman before or since — 
this last being the more remarkable, hi that she was not possessed 
of extraordinary beauty. 

The Cleopatra of Shakspeare — among a multitude of abortive 
creations which have taken her name in vain — is, alone, the faith- 



CLEOPATRA. 167 

ful reflection of that Oriental Circe who holds our imaginations 
captive in " her strong toil of grace ; " only she realizes to one's 
senses the glowing ideal suggested by her very name. In delineat- 
ing her, Shakspeare employed to the utmost his wonderful faculty 
of perfectly identifying himself for the time with the character he 
was in the act of portraying ; his sublime insight alone, unaided 
by fancy or invention, was concerned in bringing out this living 
portrait ; for even the minutest dramatic effect he adhered strictly 
to historical facts, " spreading over the whole a richness like the 
overflowing of the Nile." 

The most characteristic display of Cleopatra's antithetical 
peculiarities is afforded by the scenes immediately following her 
lover's departure : First, where, " feeding herself with most deli- 
cious poison," she lolls in restless, longing, luxurious languor, call- 
ing for drugged draughts, that she may " sleep out this great gap 
of time her Antony is away" — teasing her attendants with her 
lovesick petulance, beguiling the heavy hours with 
fancies : 

Cleo. O Charmian, 

Where think'st thou he is now ? Stands he, or sits he ? 
Or does he walk ? or is he ou his horse ? 
O happy horse, to bear the weight of Antony ! 
Do bravely, horse ! for wot'st thou whom thou mov'st ? 
The denii- Atlas of this earth, the arm 
And burgonet of men. — He's speaking now, 
Or murmuring, Where's my serpent of old Nile ? 
For so he calls me ; 

******** 
Met'st thou my posts ? 

Alex. Ay, madam, twenty several messengers : 
Why do you send so thick ? 

Cleo. Who's born that day 

When I forget to send to Antony, 
Shall die a beggar. — Ink and paper, Charmian. — 



168 CLEOPATRA. 

Welcome, my good Alexas. — Did I, Charmian, 
Ever love Caesar so ? 

Char. O that brave Caesar ! 

Cleo. Be chok'd with, such another emphasis ! 
Say the brave Antony. 

Char. The valiant Caesar ! 

Cleo. By Isis ! I will give thee bloody teeth, 
If thou with Caesar paragon again 
My man of men. 

Char. By your most gracious pardon, 

I sing but after you. 

Cleo. My salad days, 

When I was green in judgment : — Cold in blood, 
To say as I said then ! — But, come, away : 
Get me ink and paper ; he shall have every day 
A several greeting, or I'll unpeople Egypt. 

In strong contrast to this tremendous trifling, is the scene where 
she receives the messenger from Italy: with what half-prescient 
emotion she anticipates the evil tidings that cling to his tongue ! 
With what shocking transitions Hope and Fear toss alternately, 
from her lips, promises full of gracious elegance, and coarse threats 
of personal violence, till they have lashed up a tempest in her tor- 
rid soul, to vent its impotent fury on the innocent cause of her 
anguish : 

Mess. Madam, madam, — 

Cleo. Antony's dead ? — 
If thou say so, villain, thou kill'st thy mistress ; 
But well and free, 

If thou so yield him, there is gold, and here 
My bluest veins to kiss — a hand that kings 
Have lipp'd, and trembled kissing. 

Mess. First, madam, he's well. 

Cleo. Why, there's more gold. But, sirrah, mark 1 we use 
To say the dead are well : bring it to that, 
The gold I give thee will I melt, and pour 
Down thy ill-uttering throat. 



CLEOPATRA. 169 

Mess. Good madam, hear me. 

Cleo. Well, go to, I will ; 

But there's no goodness in thy fape. If Antony 
Be free, and healthful, — why so tart a favor 
To trumpet such good tidings ? If not well, 
Thou should'st come like a fury crown' d with snakes 
Not like a formal man. 

Mess. Will 't please you hear me ? 

Cleo. I have a mind to strike thee, ere thou speak'st ; 
Yet, if thou say Antony lives, is well, 
Or friends with Coesar, or not captive to him, 
I'll set thee in a shower of gold, and hail 
Rich pearls upon thee. 

Mess. Madam, he's well. 

Cleo. Well said. 



In state of health, thou say'st ; and, thou say'st, free. 

Mess. Free, madam ! no ; I made no such report : 
He's bound unto Octavia. 

Cleo. For what good turn. 



3Iess. Madam, he's married to Octavia. 

Cleo. The most infectious pestilence upon thee ! 

[Strikes him down. 
— Hence, 
Horrible villain ! or I'll spurn thine eyes 
Like balls before me ; I'll unhair thy head ; 
Thou shalt be whipp'd with wire, and stew'd in brine, 
Smarting in ling'ring pickle. 

Mess. Gracious madam, 

I, that do bring the news, made not the match. 

Cleo. Say 'tis not so, a province I will give thee, 
And make thy fortunes proud ; the blow thou had'st 
Shall make thy peace, for moving me to rage ; 
And I will boot thee with what gift beside 
Thy modesty can beg. 

Mess. He's married, madam. 

Cleo. Rogue, thou hast liv'd too long. 

[Draics a dagger. 
22 



170 CLEOPATRA. 

But the rude storm spent, this wrathful queen is as love-lorn 
and pitiful, in her tears and swooning soitoav, as any heart-wrung 
wretch of to-day : 

Cleo. In praising Antony, I have disprais'd Cresar. 

Char. Many times, madam. 

Cleo. I am paid for 't now. 

Lead me from hence — 

I faint ! O Iras, Charmian ! — 'Tis no matter : — 
Go to the fellow, good Alexas ; hid him 
Report the feature of Octavia, her years, 
Her inclination ; let him not leave out 
The color of her hair : — bring me word quickly. — 
Let him forever go — Let him not — Charmian, 
Though he he painted one way like a Gorgon, 
T' other way he's a Mars. — Bid you Alexas 
Bring me word how tall she is. — Pity me, Charmian ; 
But do not speak to me. — Lead me to my chamber. 

Hazlitt says of Cleopatra that " she had great and unpardon- 
able faults, but the beauty of her death almost redeems them." It 
woidd, indeed, quite redeem them, if we did not find the motive 
that prompted her death, " after the high Roman fashion," more 
plainly evinced in her haughty horror of being paraded through 
Rome, than in her anguish at surviving the lover whom she had, 
in a manner, murdered ; for a woman of equally intense passions, 
and less egotism, the last would have sufficed ; but with Cleopatra, 
Self was paramount to Love, and all the gods. 

Antony, brought to the foot of the monument, mortally wound- 
ed, implores her to come down to him ; yet even at that moment 
of shocked surprise and overwhelming agony, she answers him 
thus — a selfish consideration uppermost even then : 

I dare not, dear ; 
(Dear my lord, pardon,) I dare not, 



CLEOPATRA. Ill 

Lest I be taken. Not the imperious show 

Of the full-fortun'd Ctesar-ever shall - 

Be brooch'd with me ; if knife, drugs, serpents, have 

Edge, sting, or operation, I am safe. 

Your wife, Octavia, with her modest eyes 

And still conclusion, shall acquire no honor 

Demuring upon me. 

Then, with tlie assistance of her women, " Cleopatra, stooping 
down her head, putting to all her strength to her uttermost 
power, did lift him up with much ado, and never let go her hold." 

And thus, again, to Caesar's messenger : 

Know, sir, that I 
Will not wait pinion'd at your master's court ; 
Nor once be chastis'd with the sober eye 
Of dull Octavia. Shall they hoist me up, 
And show me to the shouting varletry 
Of censuring Rome ? Rather a ditch in Egypt 
Be gentle grave to me ! rather on Nilus' mud 
Lay me stark naked, and let the water-flies 
Blow me into abhorring ! rather make 
My country's high pyramides my gibbet, 
And hang me up in chains ! 

But in the following burst, addressed to one of her women, and 
repeated in detailed offensiveness, the better to strengthen her 
own timid purpose, speaks all the woman — the sumptuous Sybarite 
to whom coarseness of association or diet was immeasurably worse 
than the profoundest moral degradation of "purple and fine 
linen : " 

* * Now, Iras, what think'st thou ? 
Thou, an Egyptian puppet, shalt be shown 
In Rome, as well as I : mechanic slaves 
With greasy aprons, rules, and hammers, shall 



172 CLEOPATRA. 

Uplift us to the view ; in their thick breaths, 
Rank of gross diet, shall we be enclouded, 
And forc'd to drink their vapor. 

Saucy lictors 
Will catch at us, like strumpets ; and scald rhymers 
Ballad us out o' tune ; the quick comedians 
Extemporally will stage us, and present 
Our Alexandrian revels ; Antony 
Shall be brought drunken forth, and I shall see 
Some squeaking Cleopatra boy my greatness. 

The death scene imparts additional and gorgeous vividness to 
our vision of Cleopatra ; it proves indisputably that coquetry is 
not with her a merely convenient art, acquired and cultivated for 
a purpose, hut part of her very "being. Effect, even in the " article 
of death," is her ruling passion. It is not enough that she should 
give up grandly her illustrious ghost ; she must die picturesquely, 
berobed and jewelled; and her success is, as ever, perfect : the glo- 
rious legend of the " Venus of the Nile," robed in imperial ves- 
tures, crowned, and dead — looking like sleep, " as she would catch 
another Antony in her strong toil of grace," is spendidly embla- 
zoned on the panes of fancy, in imperishable dyes. 

Two delicate touches of the " pure womanly " throw a mourn- 
ful tenderness over the last moments of the unhappy queen. One 
is her allusion to the grand triumph of her life, the adventure of 
the Cydnus, in which she likens this dreadful setting-forth to that 
first journey to her lover : 

Show me, my women, like a queen : — Go fetch 

My best attires ; — I am again for Cydnus, 

To meet Mark Antony : 

******** 

Give me my robe ; put on my crown. 

* * * Quick! — Methinks I hear 

Antony call. 



CLEOPATRA. 173 

And again : 

Char. O eastern star ! 

Cleo. Peace, peace ! 

Dost thou not see my baby at my breast, 
That sucks the nurse asleep ? 



Here it is not only " the contrast between the beauty of the 
image and the horror of the situation " which produces so touch- 
ing an effect, but the reproduction, with startling reality, of the 
very sensations experienced by Cleopatra in the act of suffering 
this quick and " easy way to die." Had not Shakspeare written 
thus, we shoidd be sure that none but a mother could with such 
reality conceive of the luxurious, dreamy, half-unconscious lan- 
guor, peculiar to her most beautiful office, and which, through an 
mage as tender as it is subtile, conveys to our minds the only 
dea we can associate with the death of Cleopatra — a voluptuous, 
ntoxicated sleep, rather than death. 

"We are tempted to transcribe a few condensed expressions of 
character, scattered throughout the play, as affording the truest 
index to Cleopatra's distinguished peculiarities. For examples 
of her coquetry : 

Cleo. Where is he? 

Char. I did not see him since. 

Cleo. See where he is, who's with him, what he does — 
I did not send you. — If you find hini sad, 
Say I am dancing ; if in mirth, report 
That I am sudden sick : Quick, and return. [Exit Alex. 

Char. Madam, methhiks if you did love him dearly, 
You do not hold the method to enforce 
The like from him. 

Cleo. What should I do I do not? 

Char. In each thing give him way, cross him in nothing. 

Cleo. Thou teachest like a fool — the way to lose him. 



174 CLEOPATRA. 

Char. Tempt him not so too for ; I wish, forbear. 
In time we hate that which we often fear. 

Ant. I must be gone. 

Eno. ******** 

* * Cleopatra, catching but the least noise of this, 
dies instantly ; I have seen her die twenty times upon 
far poorer moment. I do think there is mettle in death, 
which commits some loving act upon her, she hath such 
a celerity in dying. 

Ant. She is cunning past man's thought. 

Eno. Alack, sir, no ; her passions are made of nothiug 
but the finest part of pure love. We cannot call her 
winds and waters sighs and tears ; they are greater 
storms and tempests than almanacs can report : this can- 
not be cunning hi her ; if it be, she makes a shower of 
rain as well as Jove. 

Cleo. Cut my lace, Chavmian, come !— - 

But let it be ; — I am quickly ill, and well. 
So Antony loves. 

To the monument ! — 
Mardian, go tell him I have slain myself; 
Say that the last I spoke was Antony, 
And word it, pr'ythee, piteously. Hence, 
Mardian ; and bring me how he takes my death. 

I know, by that same eye, there's some good news. 
"What says the married woman ? — You may go ; 
'Would she had never given you leave to come ! 
Let her not say 'tis I that keep you here — 
I have no power upon you ; hers you are. 

* * * * * * * * 
Ant. Cleopatra, — 

Cleo. Why should I think you can be mine and true, 
Though you in swearing shake the throned gods, 
Who have been false to Fulvia? Riotous madness, 
To be entangled with those mouth-made vows, 
Which break themselves in swearing ! 



CLEOPATRA. 115 

Ant. Most sweet queen, — 

Cleo. Nay, pray you, seek no color for your going, 

Cut Lid farewell, and go. When you sued staying, 

Then was the time for words — no going then ; 

Eternity was in our lips and eyes, 

Bliss in our brows' bent, 

And finally these speaking portraits : 

Ant. Fye, wrangling queen ! 

Whom every thing becomes — to chide, to laugh, 
To weep ; whose every passion fully strives 
To make itself in thee fair and admired ! 

O this false soul of Egypt ! this grave charm, 

Whose eye beck'd forth my wars, and call'd them home. 

Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale 

Her infinite variety : Other women 

Cloy th' appetites they feed ; but she makes hungry 

Where most she satisfies ; for vilest things 

Become themselves in her. 



ORES SID A. 

- • 

This fair but frail beauty was tire daughter of Galenas, a Tro- 
jan priest, who, in the great war between his countrymen and the 
Greeks — provoked by the abduction of Helen, Menelaus' queen, 
by Paris, one of the king of Troy's sons — took part with the Greeks, 
and fled to their camp outside the walls of the " many-gated city," 
leaving Cressida with her uncle Pandarus. 

Prince Troilus, Priam's youngest son, became blindly infatua- 
ted with the beautiful Cressida, who secretly returned his passion, 
but with coquettish dissimulation held herself aloof, despite the 
well-laid plans of . her intriguing uncle to consummate the tender 
hopes of Troilus. At last, however, beset on every side, Cressida 
yielded to the importunate suit of her lover, and confessed herself 
won; but the very next day, the Greeks, moved by the prayers 
of Oak-has, sent a herald to the Trojans, to proffeE Antenor, one 
of the Trojan commanders whom they had taken prisoner, in ex- 
change for Cressida, the priest's daughter; and the oiler was joy- 
fully accepted. 

Cressida, accordingly, departed for the camp, escorted by Dio- 
med, a Grecian general, on whom, notwithstanding her vows of 
fidelity to Troilus — hiinself the most constant of lovers — she at 



178 CRESSIDA. 

once bestowed lier perfidious favors ; the Greek, for all his valor, 
was not proof against her charms. 

Shortly afterward, during a truce, and a friendly interview of 
Hector and Troilus with the Greek heroes, on the latter's own 
ground, Troilus was made aware of Cressida's perfidy, and from a 
concealed position witnessed certain love passages between her 
aud Diomed, in which she presented her new lover with the very 
same gage (Tamour that she had accepted from him when she left 
Troy. On the morrow, during the engagements by single combat 
between the most puissant of the Greeks and Trojans, Troilus 
fought valiantly with his rival, Diomed, who tauntingly displayed 
Cressida's gift on his helmet ; but the rash, unpractised stripling 
could not cope with the tried skill of the Greek ; Diomed suc- 
ceeded in dismounting the "amorous Trojan," and sent his charger 
as a trophy to the lady Cressid. 

On that same day the valiant Hector — who had gone forth to 
battle despite the tears and prayers of his wife Andromache, 
despite the entreaties of his royal father, and the foreboding ut- 
terances of the forlorn Cassandra, whose ravings might well have 
been accepted as inspirations — was treacherously murdered by 
Achilles, the champion of the Greeks. 



In puny contrast with Egypt's queen of voluptuousness — the 
same in kind, but immeasurably below her in degree — stands 
Cressida, the type of coquettes of little ambitions and less brains, 
flirting, jilting, silly wantons, whose insignificant amours lack every 
quality of sentiment or taste which might appeal to one's tolera- 
tion — most of all, that intellectual element which may impart even 
to her sin a certain dignity. 



CRESSIDA. 179 

Cressida is l>ut another name for an inconstancy tenfold more 
hi >peless than downright treachery, in that it implies an inherent 
incapability of being true ; the involuntary breaking of her sol- 
emn oaths to her lover, uttered in all sincerity perhaps, betrays a 
nature far more hopelessly depraved than if she had, from the first, 
meant to deceive him. Selfish love of admiration possesses her 
completely ; her life is devoted to the gratification of a petty van- 
ity, and the study of a very low order of seductions to procure it ; 
not once do her faults rise to the dignity of bad passions, nor are 
they ever honored with more indignation than a contemptuous 
disgust. Her penchant for the handsome young Troilus is utterly 
without taste, " tenderness, passion, or poetry ; " it is only the di- 
luted romance of a giddy-pated girl. Her confession of love for 
him, in which she judges him by her own fickleness and wanton 
exercise of power, is characteristic : 

< Vi s. Boldness comes to me now, and brings me heart : — 
Prince Troilus, I have lov'd you night and day, 
For many weary months. 

Tro. Why was my Cressid theu so hard to win ? 

Ores. Hard to seem won ; but I was won, my lord, 
With the first glance that ever — Pardon me ; — 
If I confess much, you will play the tyrant. 
I love yon now ; but not, till now, so much 
But I might master it. — In faith, I lie ; 
My thoughts were like unbridled children, grown 
Too headstrong for their mother. — See, we fools ! 
Why have I blabb'd ? Who shall be true to us, 
When we are so unsecret to ourselves ? 
But, though I lov'd you well, I woo'd you not ; 
And yet, good faith, I wish'd myself a man ; 
Or that we women had men's privilege 
Of speaking first. Sweet, bid me hold my tongue ; 
For, in this rapture, I shall surely speak 
The thing I shall repent. See, see ! your silence, 
Cunning in dumbness, from my weakness draws 



180 ORES SID A. 

My very soul of counsel : Stop my mouth. 

Tro. And shall, albeit sweet music issues thence. 

********* 

Ores. My lord, I do beseech you, pardon me — 
'Twas not my purpose, thus to beg a kiss ; 
I am asham'd ; — O heavens ! what have I dune ? 
******** * 

Ores. Pr'ythee, tarry ; 

You men will never tarry. — 
O foolish Cressid !— I might have still held otf, 
And then you would have tarried. 

And even more Cressid-like is her explanation of the mean philos- 
ophy that prompted that seeming " stubhorn-chastity against all 
suit," which so captivated her hero-lover : 

But more in Troilus thousand fold I see 
Than in the glass of Pandar's praise may be ; 
Yet hold I oif. Women are angels, wooing ; 
Things won are done— joy's soul lies in the doing 
That she belov'd knows nought, that knows not this — 
Men prize the thing nngain'd more than it is ; 
That she was never yet that ever knew 
Love got so sweet, as when Desire did sue : 
Therefore this maxim out of love I teach, — 
Achievement is command ; ungain'd, beseech. 
Then though my heart's content firm love doth bear, 
Nothing of that shall from mine eyes appear. 

In the parting scene she makes much of her pretty poutings 
and her spoilt-child petulance ; the threatened destruction of her 
beauty is an exquisite touch of nature, while her high-sounding 
oaths are ludicrous only to those who have anticipated the sequel : 

Cres. O you immortal gods ! — I will not go. 
Pan. Thou must. 

Cres. I will not, uncle : I have forgot my father ; 
I know no touch of consanguinity ; 



CRESSIDA. 181 

No kin, no love, no blood, no soul so near me 
As the sweet Troilus. — O you gods divine ! 
Make Cressid's name the very crown of falsehood, 
If ever she leave Troilus ! Time, Force, and Death, 
Do to this body what extremes you can ; 
But the strong base and building of my love 
Is as the very centre of the earth, 
Drawing all things to it. — I'll go in, and weep, — 
********** 
Tear my bright hair, and scratch my praised cheeks, 
Crack my clear voice with sobs, and break my heart 
With sounding Troilus. I will not go from Troy. 



If I be false, or swerve a hair from truth, 

When Time is old and hath forgot itself, 

When waterdrops have worn the stones of Troy, 

And blind Oblivion swallow'd cities up, 

And mighty states, characterless, are grated 

To dusty nothing — yet let memory, 

From false to false, among false maids in love, 

Upbraid my falsehood ! * * * * 

Tea, let them say, to stick the heart of falsehood, 
As false as Cressid 

We cannot more appropriately conclude our remarks, on a sub- 
ject that certainly tempts us but little, than by quoting the 
trenchant description of the sage Ulysses : 

Fye, lye upon her ! 
There's language in her eye, her cheek, her lip — 
Nay, her foot speaks ; her wanton spirits look out 
At every joint and motive of her body. 
O, these encounterers, so glib of tongue, 
That give a coasting welcome ere it comes, 
And wide unclasp the tables of their thoughts 
To every ticklish reader ! set them down 
For sluttish spoils of opportunity, 
And daughters of the game. 




- " ■ 



HELEN. 

This "beautiful trouble" of the Trojan "War, the most admired 
woman of her time, was the " begotten of Jupiter," by Leda, wife 
of King Tyudarus. From her birth she was a marvel of beauty ; 
and when she had arrived at marriageable age, many of the Greek 
princes became suitors for her hand. Finally she made choice of 
Menelaus, and the others joined in a chivalrous compact to protect 
his marital rights against the world. Paris, son of Priam, king of 
Troy, smitten by the mere report of her charms, visited Laced as- 
mon on the pretext of sacrificing to Apollo ; and in the absence 
of Menelaus, he prevailed on the beautiful Helen to fly with him 
to Troy. 

True to their vow, the Grecian princes held a solemn council, 
and resolved to make war against the Trojans ; but first they sent 
an embassy to Priam's court, demanding the restoration of Helen. 
This refused, war was declared at once, and the Grecian forces sur- 
rounded the walled city of Troy. The tedious siege lasted ten 
years ; Paris having been killed in the ninth year, Helen married 
another of Priam's sons ; and when Troy fell, she betrayed her 
husband into the hands of the conquerors, to procure the favor of 
Menelaus. 



184 HELEN. 

A few years later, Meuelaus, who had received again his un 
worthy wife, died ; and Helen, driven from his court by his ille- 
gitimate sons, took refuge in Rhodes, where she was put to death 
by order of the queen, Polyxo, in revenge for the loss of her lms- 
liand, who had been killed in the Trojan war. 



The sketch of Helen, in the play of Troilux and Cressida, is 
not less incomplete than that of "the mad Cassandra;" still, from 
that mere outline of her history the inference is safe, that she was 
as fickle and false as she was incomparably fair — a faithless wife, 
and a treacherous mistress — a woman who could abandon herself 
to the most frivolous pleasures while the best blood of two nations 
was being wasted for the glory of possessing her person. Diomed, 
the Grecian general, who fell so easy a victim to Cressida of infa- 
mous memory, is scarcely one from whom to expect impressive les- 
sons in morality ; but his appreciation of Helen is nevertheless j ust : 

Par. And tell mo, noble Diomed — faith, tell me true, 
Even in the soul of sound good-fellowship — 
Who, in your thoughts, merits fair Helen best — 
Myself or Menelaus ? 

Uio. Both alike : 

He merits well to have her, that doth seek her 
(Not making any scruple of her soilure,) 
With such a hell of pain, and world of charge ; 
And you as well to keep her, that defend her 
(Not painting the taste of her dishonor,) 
With such a costly loss of wealth and friends : 
********** 

Par. You are too bitter to your countrywoman. 

Dio. She's bitter to her country: Hear me, Paris. — 
For every false drop in her bawdy veins 
A Grecian's life hath simk ; for every scruple 



HELEN. 185 



Of her contaminated carrion weight, 
A Trojan hath been slain ; since she could speak, 
She hath not given so many good words breath 
As for her Greeks and Trojans suffer'd death. 

But this 

Mortal Venus, the heart-blood of beauty, love's invisi- 
ble soul, 

seems to have cast the spell of her abominable charms over her 
Trojan defenders ; Paris, indeed, "speaks like one besotted on his 
sweet delights : " 

Sir, I propose not merely to myself 

The pleasures such a beauty brings with it ; 

But I would have the soil of her fair rape 

Wip'd off, in honorable keeping her. 

What treason were it to the ransack'd queen, 

Disgrace to your great worths, and shame to me, 

Now to deliver her possession up, 

On terms of base compulsion ? Can it be, 

That so degenerate a strain as this 

Should once set footing in your generous bosoms ? 

There's not the meanest spirit on our party, 

Without a heart to dare, or sword to draw, 

When Helen is defended ; nor none so noble, 

Whose life were ill-bestow'd, or death unfam'd, 

Where Helen is the subject : then, I say, 

Well may we fight for her whom, we know well, 

The world's large spaces cannot parallel. 

But the simple-minded, brave, honorable Troilus is scarcely less 
enthusiastic when there is question among the assembled sages of 
Troy whether or not to restore Helen to her husband : 



He brought a Grecian queen, whose youth and freshness 
Wrinkles Apollo's, and makes pale the morning. 
24 



186 HELEN. 



Is she worth keeping ? why, she is a pearl, 

"Whose price hath launch'd ahove a thousand ships, 

And turn'd crown'd kings to merchants. 

If you'll avouch 'twas wisdom Paris went, 

(As you must needs, for you all cry'd — Go, go !) 

If you'll confess he brought home noble prize, 

(As you must needs, for you all clapp'd your hands, 

And cry'd — Inestimable !) why do you now 

The issue of your proper wisdoms rate, 

And do a deed that fortune never did — 

Beggar the estimation which you priz'd 

Richer than sea and land ? * * * 

******** 

She is a theme of honor and renown, 

A spur to valiant and magnanimous deeds, 

Whose present courage may beat down our foes, 

And fame, in time to come, canonize us. 







. . . ■ 



CASSANDRA. 

Cassandra was the daughter of Priam, and twin-sister of Hele- 
nus. In her early youth she was beloved by Apollo, who endowed 
her with the gift of prophecy, and demanded her love in return. 
This was indignantly refused by the virgin princess ; wherefore, 
enraged by her refusal, Apollo left her in possession of her super- 
natural faculty, but set a cruel curse on her predictions — that they 
should never be believed. 

Thus she suffered all the anguish of foreseeing the fate of her 
beloved Troy, without being able to persuade the people to give 
up Helen— the unworthy cause of that disastrous war. They 
deemed her warnings mere " brain-sick raptures : " 

Cas. Cry, Trojans, cry ! lend me ten thousand eyes, 
And I will fill them with prophetic tears. 

Sect. Peace, sister, peace ! 

Cas. Virgins and boys, mid age and wrinkled elders, 
Soft infancy, that nothing canst but cry, 
Add to my clamors ! let us pay betimes 
A moiety of that mass of moan to come. 
Cry, Trojans, cry ! practise your eyes with tears ! 
Troy must not be, nor goodly Hion stand ; 
Our fire-brand brother, Paris, burns us all. 



188 CASSANDRA. 

Cry, Trojans, cry ! a Helen, and a woe ! 

Cry, cry ! Troy burns, or else let Helen go. \Exit. 

Sect. Now, youthful Troilus, do not these high strains 
Of divination in our sister work 
Some touches of remorse ? or is your blood 
So madly hot that no discourse of reason, 
Nor fear of bad success in a bad cause, 
Can qualify the same ? 

Tro. Why, brother Hector, 

We may not think the justness of each act 
Such and no other than event doth form it ; 
Nor once deject the courage of our minds, 
Because Cassandra's mad ; her brain-sick raptures 
Cannot distaste the goodness of a quarrel 
Which hath our several honors all engag'd 
To make it gracious. 

The scene where, foreseeing the death of her hero-brother, 
Hector, the strong arm of Troy, she beseeches him not to go forth 
to battle on that unlucky day, is full of highly-wrought tragic 
effects ; her frantic pre-vision of his death, which she interprets 
with all the despairing grief of a sister and the ' fervid conviction 
of a prophetess — and her hopeless, resigned " farewell," when it 
fails to move him, and she remembers her curse, abound in touch- 
ing eloquence : 



Cas. Where is my brother Hector ? 

And. Here, sister — arm'd and bloody in intent. 
Consort with me in loud and dear petition — 
Pursue we him on knees ; for I have dream' d 
Of bloody turbulence, and this whole night 
Hath nothing been but shapes and forms of slaughter. 

Cas. O, it is true. 

Sect. Ho ! bid my trumpet sound ! 

Cas. No notes of sally, for the heavens, sweet brother. 

Sect. Begone, I say ! the gods have heard me swear. 

Cas. The gods are deaf to hot and peevish vows ; 



CASSANDRA. 189 

They are polluted offerings, more abhorr'd 
Than spotted livers in the sacrifice. 

And. O ! be persuaded. Do not count it holy 
To hurt by being just ; it is as lawful, 
For we would give much, to use violent thefts, 
And rob in the behalf of charity. 

Cas. It is the purpose that makes strong the vow ; 
But vows to every purpose must not hold. 
Unarm, sweet Hector. 
******** 
Lay hold upon him, Priam — hold him fast : 
He is thy crutch ; now, if thou lose thy stay, 
Thou on him leaning, and all Troy on thee, 
Fall all together. 

PH. Come, Hector, come ! go back : 

Thy wife hath dream'd ; thy mother hath had visions ; 
Cassandra doth foresee ; and I myself 
Am like a prophet suddenly cm-apt, 
To tell thee — that this day is ominous ; 
Therefore, come back. 
******** * 

Tro. This foolish, dreaming, superstitious girl 
Makes all these bodements. 

Cas. O farewell, dear Hector. 

Look, how thou diest ! look, how thy eye turns pale ! 
Look, how thy wounds do bleed at many vents ! 
Hark, how Troy roars ! how Hecuba cries out ! 
How poor Andromache shrills her dolors forth ! 
Behold, destruction, frenzy, and amazement, 
Like witless antics, one another meet, 
And all cry — Hector ! Hector's dead ! O Hector ! 

Tro. Away ! — Away ! 

Cas. Farewell. — Yet, soft. — Hector, I take my leave : 
Thou dost thyself, and all our Troy, deceive. 

The Cassandra of Shakspeare is but a sketch — one of those 
half-mad sibyls of the East who generally exercised so potent an 
influence over the popular mind, and whose counsels were so highly 
esteemed in the world's romantic age. Her subsequent fate was as 



190 CASSANDRA. 

wretched as the Shakespearian episode of her life is melancholy : 
according to classical authority, Cassandra was violated by Ajax, 
one of the Greek heroes, in a sacred temple, whither she had fled 
with her maidens for protection when Troy was taken. Falling to 
the share of Agamemnon, he Lore her to My cene, where .they 
were both murdered by his wife, Clytemnestra. 



THE SHEEW. 

Katharina was the elder daughter of Baptista Minola, a 
wealthy citizen of Padua. So notorious was she for her violent 
temper and unruly tongue, that, although she was handsomely 
dowered, and very beautiful, not a gallant in the city 'was hold 
enough to take her to wife. But it happened that Petruchio, a 
gentleman from Verona, having fallen into possession of his prop- 
erty by the death of his father, had come to " wive it wealthily in 
Padua," where certain lovers of Bianca, Katharina's sister, who 
were interested in the marrying of the Shrew — inasmuch as Bap- 
tista would not think of wedding his younger daughter first — in- 
formed Petruchio of this most excellent chance for him to get a 
rich wife, as he had declared to them that only riches were indis- 
pensable to his choice. 

So he straightway went to Baptista and made proposals for 
Katharina, which were accepted, on condition that the young 
signior should find favor with the Shrew. Katharina did not fail 
to treat her suitor promptly to a spice of her unlovely temper ; 
but Petruchio, well prepared, took no notice of her saucy rejoinders, 
except to construe them as amiable manifestations ; and when 



192 THE SHREW. 

her father rejoined theni, he informed him that Kate had promised 
to become his wife on the following Sunday. 

Old Baptista, delighted at the prospect of marrying " Kath- 
arina the curst," made handsome preparations for the wedding, to 
which Petruchio came in such strange attire, and with such odd be- 
havior, that he was regarded by the bride and the guests as half 
crazed. At the church he conducted himself even more wildly, 
and immediately after the wedding, insisted upon starting for his 
own home, in spite of the entreaties of his father-in-law that he 
would stay to the feast he had prepared, and the downright, but 
unavailing, refusal of his bride to accompany him. 

Arrived at their own house, Petruchio, madder than before, 
began beating the servants and storming at every thing ; clearing 
the table before his wife had eaten a morsel, on pretence that the 
viands were not cooked fit for his dainty Kate ; tearing her bed to 
pieces, because it was not properly made ; keeping her awake night 
after night with railing, after her own fashion — till, with hunger 
and fatigue, Katharina's "mad and headstrong humor" was tamed 
down sufficiently to receive with edification the course of lessons 
her husband had projected for her benefit. 

Soon after their marriage he proposed a journey to her father's 
house ; and while on the road thither, because his wife presumed 
to correct him for saying " how goodly shines the moon," in bright 
mid-day, he immediately ordered their horses to be taken back ; 
nor would he consent to pi'oceed, until Katharina swore it should 
be sun, moon, rush-candle, or what he pleased. And still more 
oddly to test her submission, he caused her to greet an old man on 
the highway as a "young and budding virgin" — and in the next 
breath, as he really was, a wrinkled graybeard. But the final 
triumph of his discipline was reserved to be displayed in her 
father's house, where, at his command, she read a lecture on conju- 



THE SHREW. 193 

gal obedience to her sister Bianca and a pert widow, who had just 
been made "brides, and who had been exhibiting- signs of wayward- 
ness towards " their lords, their kings, their governors." 



It is scarcely possible to consider the character of Katharina 
with gravity ; her shrewishness is so wildly extravagant, so incon- 
ceivable in any maiden, " young, beauteous, and brought up as best 
becomes a gentlewoman," that she may serve but as the heroine 
of the extravaganza wherein she figures — and as a burlesque 
" moral and example " to those " not impossible shes " who are 
curst, within the bounds of probability, with her unamiable pro- 
clivities. 

The predicaments of this brawling Kate are extremely ludi- 
crous ; but Ave cannot be so charitable towards her peculiar siu 
against womanhood as to pity them, even when she is most hardly 
pressed — she deserves even more than she suffers, at the hands of 
her mad Petruchio ; and the outward fruits of her trials and tribu- 
lations are highly satisfactory. Nevertheless, we own we have but 
little faith in the enduring quality of a "taming" which is procured 
by almost the same means as are employed in the subduing of a 
wild animal, and by a husband who neither loves nor is loved by 
her ; we much fear that — the keeper and his lash out of sight — 
this human wild-cat, " convinced against her will," would be " of 
the same opinion still." 

One is amused at Hazlitt's absurdities about Petruchio's meta- 
morphosing his wife's senses at his will—as if he believed that 
Katharina actually sees what her husband pretends to see ; so far 
from affording satisfaction to a man of less blunted sensibilities 
than her husband, Kate's ready acquiescence in his palpable non- 



194 THE SHREW. 

sense would be full of sarcasm, ten times more insulting, more 
spiteful, tlian her honest railing. 

For two of the " eleven and twenty " tricks of Petruchio, we 
give the incidents of the journey to Padua : 

Pet. Come on, o' God's name ; once more toward our father's. 
Good Lord, how bright and goodly shines the moon ! 

Kath. The moon ! — the sun ; it is not moonlight now. 

Pet. I say it is the moon that shines so bright. 

Kath. I know it is the sun that shines so bright. 

Pet. Now, by my mother's son, and that's myself, 
It shall be moon, or star, or what I list, 
Or ere I journey to your father's house : — 
Go on, and fetch our horses back again. — 
Evermore cross'd, and cross'd ; nothing but cross'd ! 

Sbr. Say as he says, or we shall never go. 

Kath. Forward, I pray, since we have come so far ; 
And be it moon, or sun, or what you please ; 
And if you please to call it a rush candle, 
Henceforth I vow it shall be so for me. 

Pet. I say it is the moon. 

Kath. I know it is. 

Pet. Nay, then you lie ; it is the blessed sun. 

Kath. Then, God be blessed, it is the blessed sun ; 
But sim it is not, when you say it is not ; 
And the moon changes, even as your mind. 
What you will have it nam'd, even that it is ; 
And so it shall be so, for Katharina. 

Pet. Tell me, sweet Kate — and tell me truly too — 
Hast thou beheld a fresher gentlewoman ? 
Such war of white and red within her cheeks ! 
What stars do spangle heaven with such beauty 
As those two eyes become that heavenly face ? — 
Fair lovely maid, once more good day to thee : — 
Sweet Kate, embrace her for her beauty's sake. 

Kath. Young budding virgin, fair, and fresh, and sweet, 
Whither away ? or where is thy abode ? 
Happy the parents of so fair a child ; 



THE SHREW. 105 

Happier the man whom favorable stars 
Allot thee for his lovely bed-fellow ! 

Pet. Why, how now, Kate ! I hope thou art not mad : 
This is a man, old, wrinkled, faded, wither'd — 
And not a maiden, as thou say'st he is. 

Kath. Pardon, old father, my mistaking eyes, 
That have been so bedazzled with the sun 
That every thing I look on seemeth green ; 
Now I perceive thou art a reverend father : 
Pardon, I pray thee, for my mad mistaking. 

The final trotting out of his trained wife before his friends, for 
a wager, is worthy of the man who " came to Padua to wive it 
wealthily "— 

Be she as foul as was Florentius' love, 
As old as Sibyl, and as curst and shrewd 
As Socrates' Xantippe, or a worse. 

But she gets off her little speech, with which, by the by, no 
one out of the dangerous circle of Woman's Rights can possibly 
find fault ; and she receives her reward — a kiss from the husband, 
whom we are sure, for all her fine talk, she hates cordially : 

Pet. Nay, I will win my wager better yet, 
And show more sign of her obedience — 
Her new-built virtue and obedience. 
See ! where she comes, and brings your froward wives 
As prisoners to her womanly persuasion. — 
Katharine, that cap of yours becomes you not ; 
Off with that bauble, throw it under foot. 

[Katiiaeina pulls off her cap, and throics it doion. 

Pet. Katharine, I charge thee, tell these headstrong women 
What duty they do owe their lords and husbands. 
***** * * * * * 

Kath. Fye, fye ! unknit that threat'ning, unkind brow, 
And dart not scornful glances from those eyes, 



196 THE SHREW. 

To wound thy lord, thy king, thy governor ; 
It blots thy beauty, as frosts bite the meads — 
Confounds thy fame, as whirlwinds shake fair buds : 
And in no sense is meet or amiable. 
A woman mov'd is like a fountain troubled, 
Muddy, ill-seeming, thick, bereft of beauty ; 
And, while it is so, none so dry or thirsty 
Will deign to sip, or touch one drop of it. 
Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper, 
Thy head, thy sovereign ; one that cares for thee, 
And for thy maintenance — commits his body 
To painful labor, both by sea and land, 
To watch the night in storms, the day in cold, 
While thou best warm at home, secure and safe ; 
And craves no other tribute at thy hands 
But love, fair looks, and true obedience — 
Too little payment for so great a debt. 
Such duty as the subject owes the prince, 
Even such a woman owetb to her husband ; 
And when she's froward, peevish, sullen, sour, 
And not obedient to his honest will, 
What is she but a foul contending rebel, 
And graceless traitor to her loving lord ? — 
I am ashani'd that women are so simple, 
To offer war where they should kneel for peace ; 
Or seek for ride, supremacy, and sway, 
When they are bound to serve, love, and obey. 
Why are our bodies soft, and weak, and smooth, 
Unapt to toil, and trouble, in the world, 
But that our soft conditions, and our hearts, 
Should well agree with our external parts? 
Come, come, you froward and unable worms ! 
My mind hath been as big as one of yours, 
My heart as great — my reason, haply, more, 
To bandy word for word, and frown for frown ; 
But now I see our lances are but straws, 
Our strength as weak, our weakness past compare- 
That seeming to be most which we least are. 



HELENA. 

Helena was the daughter of Gerard de Narbon, a poor but 
famous physician, who, at his death, left her to the motherly care 
of the noble and wealthy Countess of Kousillon. This lady having 
lately lost her husband, who was in high favor with the king of 
France, his Majesty despatched one of his courtiers to the coun- 
tess's palace, with commands for her son Bertram, that he should 
forthwith accompany the messenger to court ; the young count 
obeyed with alacrity. 

The good king was at this time suffering acutely, with a disease 
that baffled all the skill of his physicians. Helena — who was 
hopelessly in love with Bertram, and to whom any suggestion was 
welcome that afforded her an excuse for following him to Paris — 
was moved by the melancholy case of the king to try the virtues 
of a precious prescription left by her father, and which he had de- 
clared infallible in the very disease of which the French monarch 
languished. 

So she besought permission of her generous mistress to go to 
Paris and tender her services to the king, which was readily 
granted. At the same time the shrewd countess took advantage 
of the occasion to extort frorn her gentlewoman a confession of her 



198 HELENA. 

love for the count ; nor did the discovery displease her, for she 
loved Helena as a daughter, and was well pleased at the prospect 
of being her mother in reality. 

At court Helena encountered no little difficulty in inducing the 
king to "believe in the efficacy of her father's prescription ; but won 
over by her beauty and her eloquence, as much as by her absolute 
conviction of the infallibility of her remedy, he consented to give 
it a trial, on her own condition : that if he should be cured, he 
would bestow upon her the husband of her choice — but if not, that 
she should die for her presumption. 

Happily for Helena, the medicine wrought a miracle : the king 
was restored to health in a few days ; and eager to discharge his 
debt of gratitude, he summoned the young nobles into his pres- 
ence, that Helena might choose a husband from among them. Of 
course, she laid claim to Bertram, who — his ancestral pride out- 
raged at the idea of marrying a " poor physician's daughter," his 
mother's humble dependant — protested against so arbitrary a dis- 
posal of his person and honorable name ; but the king's word was 
given, and he commanded that the marriage should proceed. 

Thus Helena was made Countess of Rousillon ; but that same' 
day her husband sent her home with a letter for his mother, in- 
forming her of his intention to leave the country unceremoniously, 
and protesting that until he had no wife he had nothing in France. 
He added a few cruel lines for Helena, in which he gave her the 
right to call him husband only when she could get possession of a 
certain ring that should never leave his finger, and show him a 
son of hers of which he should be the father. This unkindness so 
afflicted Helena — especially the thought that she had driven him 
from his home — that she stole away from her good mother-in-law, 
and set forth on a pilgrimage to St. Jaques. 

At Florence she sought shelter and rest beneath the roof of a 



HELENA. 199 

poor widow, who was accustomed to entertain pilgrims on their 
way to the shrine. Here she learned that the widow's fair young 
daughter, Diana, was wooed by one Count Kousillon, a country- 
man of hers ; but the fact of his extraordinary marriage being 
known, Diana, a discreet maiden, had virtuously repulsed his dis- 
honorable advances. Helena, inspired by love, confided her story 
to the two women, and procured their co-operation in her plot, by 
money as well as by the persuasive eloquence of her sorrows. 

Following her instructions, Diana made an appointment for 
Count Bertram to visit her bed-chamber by night, on which occa- 
sion Helena, personating Diana, gave' him the ring the king had 
bestowed on her, and obtained from him in exchange bis ring, 
" bequeathed down from many ancestors." With this trophy she 
returned to France, accompanied by Diana and her mother, who 
were necessary to the accomplishment of her design. 

Helena had caused it to be reported that she was dead ; where- 
upon Bertram hastened back to Paris, in the hope of procuring the 
king's pardon, and obtaining the hand of a lady at court ; but his 
majesty discovered on the count's finger the ring that Helena had 
promised should never leave hers, except for some grave necessity ; 
and suspecting that some foul wrong had been done her by her 
husband, he instituted inquiries which, somewhat circuitously, but 
not the less certainly, resulted in the happiness of this heroic lady 
and devoted wife, by securing to her the favor of her husband, 
Count Bertram of Rousillon. 



In Helena we have the remarkable case of a very interesting 
female character, which is, nevertheless, deficient in one of the 
chief charms of womanhood ; her virtue is above suspicion ; her 



200 HELENA. 

mind well balanced, and marked by sterling good sense, rather 
than brilliancy ; she has ardent affections, deep devotion, indom- 
itable energy, and genuine modesty — but with scarcely a trace of 
that higher order of delicacy which should be first in such a com- 
bination. 

This formidable accusation is sustained by the simple fact that 
Helena permits herself to be married to a proud man against his 
will, even in spite of his expressed abhorrence of the union and 
dislike of herself ; yet it must be confessed that she maintains this 
graceless position with marvellous tact. 

In mitigation of so coarse a shock to the finest instincts of the 
sex which must " be wooed, and not unsought be won," it may be 
argued for Helena that in her self-abandonment to a controlling 
passion, on which her every emotion, every thought, are concentrat- 
ed, all her other feelings, instincts even, are for the time repudiated, 
except as they tend towards the one great aim of her life — -the 
happy consummation of her love. 

Yet however intense and absorbing her passion may be, she is 
as guiltless of senseless sentimentality as that very Hebe in love, 
Rosalind ; she has staked her life on its successful issue, and to that 
end she is ready to sacrifice every consideration, short of honor. 

She never, for an instant, permits herself to entertain a doubt 
of her ultimate triumph — because she knows that her only hope 
lies in her own unwavering conviction that she is capable, in her- 
self, of achieving it. This proud self-reliance is a marked feature 
of Helena's character, and is finely portrayed in her soliloquy after 
Bertram's departure : 

Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie, 
Which we ascribe to heaven ; the fated sky 
Gives us free scope — only doth backward pull 
Our slow designs when we ourselves arc dull. 



HELENA. 201 

"What power is it which mounts my love so high — 

That makes me see, and cannot feed mine eye ? 

The mightiest space in fortune nature brings 

To join like likes, and kiss like native things. 

Impossible be strange attempts to those 

That weigh their pains in sense, and do suppose 

What hath been cannot be. Who ever strove 

To show her merit that did miss her love ? 

The king's disease — my project may deceive me ; 

But my intents are fix'd, and will not leave me. 

No heroine could desire a more flattering passport to general 
favor than that afforded by the friendship for Helena of the noble 
old countess, who is never more staunchly devoted to her foster- 
child than when she is returned to her — a daughter-in-law, and a 
bride, but worse than widowed. The closeted interview between 
Helena and the countess is very characteristic of both women : 
Helena's conduct throughout is distinguished by candor and sim- 
plicity ; she exhil >its, at first, a natural reluctance to declare plainly 
that she loves the young Count of Kousillou, but she prepares his 
mother by unmistakable innuendoes for a confession which, when 
it comes, is full of chaste dignity : 

Count. I say I am your mother. 

********** 

Hel. Tou are my mother, madam ; 'Would you were 
(So that my lord, your son, were not my brother,) 
Indeed my mother ! — or were you both our mothers 
I care no more for than I do for heaven, 
So I were not his sister : Can 't no other, 
But, I your daughter, he must be my brother ? 

Count. Yes, Helen, you might be my daughter-indaw ; 
God shield you mean it not ! daughter, and mother, 
So strive upon your pulse. What, pale again ? 
My fear hath catch'd your fondness ; now I see 
The mystery of your loneliness, and find 
Your salt tears' head. Now to all sense 'tis gross : 
26 



202 HELENA. 

You love my son ; invention is asham'd, 

Against the proclamation of thy passion, 

To say thou dost not ; therefore tell me true ; 

********** 

Hel. Your pardon, noble mistress ! 

Count. Love you my son ? 

Hel. Do not you love him, madam ? 

Count. Go not about ; my love hath in 't a bond 
Whereof the world takes note. Come, come ! disclose 
The state of your affection ; for your passions 
Have to the full appeach'd. 

Hel. Then I confess, 

Here on my knee, before high heaven and you, 
That before you, and next unto high heaven, 
I love your son. 

My friends were poor, but honest ; so 's my love. 
Be not offended ; for it hurts not him 
That he is lov'd of me : I follow him not 
By any token of presumptuous suit ; 
Nor would I have him till I do deserve him — 
Yet never know how that desert should be. 
I know I love in vain, strive against hope ; 
Yet, in this captious and intenible sieve, 
I still pour in the waters of my love, 
And lack not to lose still ; thus, Indian-like, 
Religious hi mine error, I adore 
The sun, that looks upon his worshipper, 
But knows of him no more. 

Side by side with this passionate picture we place another, even 
more intensely painted ; its "beauty is vouched for by its universal 
popularity : 

I am undone ; there is no living, none, 
If Bertram be away. It were all one 
That I should love a bright particular star, 
And think to wed it — he is so above me : 
In his bright radiance and collateral light 
Must I be comforted, not in his sphere. 



HELENA. 203 

The ambition in my love thus plagues itself; 
The hind that would be mated by the lion 
Must die for love. 'Twas pretty, though a plague, 
To see him every hour — to sit and draw 
His arched brows, his hawking eye, his curls, 
In our heart's table — heart too capable 
Of every line and trick of his sweet favor ; 
But now he's gone, and my idolatrous fancy 
Must sanctify his relics. 

Not less characteristic than her deportment with the countess, 
is Helena's bearing during the very trying ordeal of the husband- 
choosing ; nothiug can be more modest than her manner of forci- 
bly taking possession of her beloved Bertram — for it amounts to 
that, as she well knows : 

I dare not say I take you ; but I give 
Me and my service, ever whilst I live, 
Into your guiding power. — This is the man ! 

Yet she is none the less persistent in her purpose, for all his 
scorn of her low origin, and his assertion that he neither loves her 
" nor will strive to do't" — his "recantation" to the king's anger 
being a mere satire, even more insulting than his plain-spoken re- 
jection. 

Once married, however, Helena is all discretion, modesty, 
sweetness ; there is a world of plaintive tenderness in her recep- 
tion of Bertram's letter — her self-reproach the more bitter because 
in the realization of her dearest hopes she finds only the source of 
endless sorrow : 

Hel. Till I have no wife, I have nothing in France. 
Nothing in France, until he has no wife ! 
Thou shalt have none, Rousillon, none in France ; 
Then hast thou all again. Poor lord ! is 't I 
That chase thee from thy country, and expose 



204 HELENA. 

Those tender limbs of thine to the event 

Of the none-sparing war ? and is it I 

That drive thee from the sportive court, where thou 

Wast shot at with fair eyes, to be the mark 

Of smoky muskets ? O you leaden messengers, 

That ride upon the violent speed of lire, 

Fly with false aim ; move the still-piercing air, 

That sings with piercing— do not touch my lord ! 

Whoever shoots at him, I set him there ; 

Whoever charges on his forward breast, 

I am the caitiff that do hold him to it ; 

And, though I kill him not, I am the cause 

His death was so eifected. Better 'twere 

I met the ravin lion when he roar'd 

With sharp constraint of huuger ; better 'twere 

That all the miseries which nature owes 

Were mine at once : N~o, come thou home, Rousillon, 

Whence honor but of danger wins a scar 

As oft it loses all. I will be gone ; 

My being here it is that holds thee hence : 

Shall I stay here to do 't ? no, no, although 

The air of Paradise did fan the house, 

And angels offie'd all. I will be gone — 

That pitiful rumor may report my flight, 

To consolate thine ea 

"We should repose more faith in the disinterestedness of Hel- 
ena's flight from her husband's home, if she did not steer straight 
for Florence, where she knows he is quartered, and if she were less 
munificently provided with money and jewels, inappropriate to the 
estate of pilgrims. But — 

All's well that rials well. 



TIT AX I A. 

TiTAjaA, wife of Oberon, was rpieen- of a band of fairies, who 
held nightly revel in the beautiful wood "a league from the town" 
of Athens. 

An ancient law of that city invested a father with the power 
of dooming his daughter to death or celibacy, if she refused the 
husband of his choosing ; accordingly, Egeus, a citizen of Athens, 
came before Duke Theseus and demanded that this law be en- 
forced against his daughter Herinia, because she refused to marry 
Demetrius, whom he had selected for a son-in-law. In defence, 
Hermia urged that she loved, and was betrothed to, Lysander ; 
moreover, that Demetrius was beloved by her dearest friend, He- 
lena, for whom until lately he had professed ardent affection. 

Notwithstanding the justice of her pleas, Theseus had no right 
to put aside the law, and Hermia was allowed four days only — to 
choose between death and a life of " single blessedness," in prefer- 
ence to marriage with a man whose fickle, faithless passion she 
despised. 

Lysander came promptly to the rescue of his lady fair. He 
proposed that she should fly from her father's house to the fairy- 



206 TITAN I A. 

haunted wood ; there he would meet her, and conduct her thence to 
another city, where they could be married. Hermia joyfully accept- 
ed this timely suggestion, and confided her secret to Helena, who, 
for the poor pleasure of having the company of her recreant lover 
to the wood and back again, told Demetrius — knowing that he 
would follow Hermia, but knowing also that it would be in vain. 

Now, between Oberon and Titania, king and cpieen of the fai- 
ries, there was at this time pending a conjugal quarrel, the cause 
being a beautiful little Indian boy belonging to the queen, whom 
Oberon ardently desired for a page, but whom Titania firrnly re- 
fused to give up. On the very night when the Athenian lovers 
agreed to meet in the wood, Oberon had made a last apj>eal to his 
wife, with no better result than before ; and he determined to pun- 
ish her for what he considered her undutiful and contumacious be- 
havior, and to acquire by stratagem what he had failed to gain by 
fail* means or foul words. So he summoned into his presence a 
fairy by the name of Puck, renowned for his expertness in all mis- 
chievous tricks, and commanded him to find a little flower called 
" Love in Idleness," at the same time confiding to him the use to 
which he intended to put it : 

Fetch me that flower — the herb I show'd thee ouce ; 
The juice of it, on sleeping eyelids laid, 
Will make or man or woman madly dote 
Upon the next live creature that it sees. 

* * * Having once this juice, 
I'll watch Titania when she is asleep, 
And drop the liquor of it in her eyes. 
The next thing then she waking looks upon, 
(Be it on lion, hear, or wolf, or bull, 
On meddling monkey, or on busy ape,) 
She shah pursue it with the soul of love ; 
And ere I take this charm ofl' from her sight, 



TITAN I A 207 

(As I can take it, with another herb,) 
I'll make her render np her page to me. 

Before Puck returned with, the flower, Demetrius passed by, 
followed by Helena, whose love he repulsed so cruelly that Obe- 
ron, touched with compassion, resolved to redress her wrongs by 
laying the same spell on Demetrius that he intended for Titania. 
Accordingly, he commanded Puck, when he returned, to follow 
this Athenian, whom he would know by his dress, and to take care 
to touch his eyes with the magic juice just when the object they 
must next rest upon would be Helena. 

Forthwith Puck started on his errand ; but it chanced that the 
first Athenian he saw was Lysander, who, at a respectful distance 
from Hermia, was stretched on the turf fast asleep, as likewise 
was the lady. So Puck anointed Lysander's eyes ; but when he 
awoke, the first thing he perceived was Helena, who, deserted by 
Demetrius, was trying to find her way out of the wood. Imme- 
diately his love was transferred from Hermia to Helena, and leav- 
ing his true love still sleeping, he followed his new love with 
compliments and courtship. 

About this time, Theseus, Duke of Athens, was on the eve of 
marriage with Hippolyta, queen of the Amazons, and a company 
of actors who were preparing " a sweet comedy " to be performed 
in then august presence, in honor of the nuptials, assembled in this 
wood to rehearse the play. It happened that the spot selected 
for this purpose was near the " close and consecrated bower " of 
Queen Titania, wherein she now lay sleeping. Oberon, hastening 
to play his magic trick upon his wife, noted these "hempen home- 
spuns," and selected Bottom, a coarse, ignorant weaver, from 
among them, to be the first object that Titania should behold on 
awaking. 

Of course the exquisite Titania straightway doted on this 



208 TITAN I A. 

"monster," whom Oberon bad made even more ridiculous, by- 
placing an ass's bead on bis brawny sboulders ; sbe lured bim away 
from bis companions, heaped upon him her sweet favors, and put 
her sprites at his command. 

Meantime Hermia awoke, to find her lover gone ; and in look- 
ing for him sbe came upon Demetrius, who at once resumed his 
unwelcome suit. Oberon, passing that way, overheard their con- 
versation, and discovered the mischief Puck bad done by mistak- 
ing Lysander for Demetrius ; but the blunder was easily rectified 
by the fairy king, who anointed the lovers' eyes with his love- 
juice, and then had their respective ladies brought before them at 
the proper moment. 

Oberon found little difficulty in securing his page, now that bis 
queen's whole soul was occupied only with Bottom, the weaver ; 
and having accompbshed his purpose, he took pity upon her ridic- 
ulous delusion, and released her from the spell. Then, all being 
harmony again, Oberon caused the events of the night to appear, 
to the "human mortals" concerned, but as a Midsummer Night's 
Dream. 

Of course the lovers were married according to their hearts' 
desire, and the beneficent purposes of the "wee folk:" 

" Farewell rewards and fairies ! 

Good housewives now may say, 
For now foule sluts in dairies 

Doe fare as well as they ; 
And though they sweepe their hearths no less 

Than mayds were wont to doe, 
Yet who of late for cleanlinesse 

Finds sixepence in her shoe ?" 



TIT AN I A. 209 

Had we lived in the days of a more beautiful and less sophis- 
ticated superstition than that of this table-tipping generation, we 
had scarcely ventured to arraign a bona fide fairy queen before 
our vulgar tribunal ; indeed, as it is, we have " screwed our cour- 
age to the sticking-point " of this task, only by remembering that 
we have nothing to say that could offend faerial majesty, or tempt 
its prompt revenge. 

Since those Swedenborgs of the elfin faith — Hans Christian 
Andersen and the Brothers Grimm — have spoken, no one can 
deny to the tricksy sprites strongly marked individualities, phys- 
ical and mental ; among no people are the pure affections more 
tenderly cultivated, the unworthy more severely rooted up — the 
lives of most of them being devoted to the rewarding of virtue and 
the punishing of vice. 

Titania, however, is not to be classed with these moral econo- 
mists : she is a sort of queen-bee in the fairy hive ; her sole busi- 
ness is to be beautiful, and to enjoy the beautiful. She is the per- 
fect fairy queen — exquisite, dainty, luxurious, self-wdled, capricious, 
coquettish ; and thoroughly royal in one and all. In her feud with 
her husband, King Oberon, she compels our sympathy through- 
out; she is in the right, and she maintains her position with 
commendable firmness and dignity.. As to the shameful trick 
played upon her delicate fancy, we overlook the ridicule in 
which it involves her "style," to admire her tender solicitude 
for her new love, her graceful dalliance, and her lavish hospi- 
tality. 

Though Titania is introduced to us in the heat of her tempo- 
rary hostility to her liege lord, it must be confessed that their mis- 
understanding, especially on her part, is widely removed from the 
v ulgar squabbles of " human mortals." The queen's argument for 
peace — not on her own account, but because their dissension is 



210 TIT AN I A. 

fraught with consequences disastrous to the inhabitants of Earth- 
is in the highest degree lofty : 

Obe. Ill met by moon-light, proud Titania. 

Tita. What ! jealous Oberon '? Fairy, skip hence ; 
I have forsworn his bed and company. 

Obe. Tarry, rash wanton ! Am not I thy lord ? 

Tita. Then I must be thy lady. But I know 
When thou hast Btol'n away from fairy land, 
And in the shape of Corin sat all day, 
Playing on pipes of corn, and versing love 
To amorous Phillida. Why art thou here, 
Come from the farthest steep of India ? 
But that, forsooth, the bouncing Amazon, 
Your buskin'd mistress, and your warrior love, 
To Theseus must be wedded ; and you come 
To give their bed joy and prosperity. 

Obe. How canst thou thus, for shame, Titania, 
Glance at my credit with Hippolyta, 
Knowing I know thy love to Theseus ? 
Didst thou not lead him through the glimmering night 
From Perigenia, whom he ravished ? 
And make him with fair iEglu break his faith, 
With Ariadne, and Antiopa? 

Tita. These are the forgeries of jealousy ; 
And never, since the middle summer's sjjring, 
Met we on hill, in dale, forest, or mead, 
By paved fountain, or by rushy brook, 
Or on the beachy margent of the sea, 
To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind, 
But with thy brawls thou hast disturb'd our sport. 
Therefore the winds, piping to us in vain, 
As in revenge, have suck'd up from the sea 
Contagious fogs ; which, tailing in the land, 
Have every pelting river made so proud, 
That they have overborne their continents : 
* * * * * * * * 
And this same progeny of evils comes 
From our debate, from our dissension ; 
We are their parents and original. 



TITAN I A. 211 

Obe. Do you amend it then ; it lies in yon. 
Why should Titania cross her Oberon ? 
I do but beg a little changeling boy 
To be my henchman. 

Tita. Set your heart at rest — 

The fairy land buys not the child of me. 
His mother was a vot'ress of my order ; 
And, in the spiced Indian air, by night, 
Full often hath she gossip'd by my side, 
And sat with me on Neptune's yellow sands, 
Marking the embarked traders on the flood. 
But she, being mortal, of that- boy did die ; 
And, for her sake, I do rear up her boy ; 
And, for her sake, I will not part with him. 

It is as unnecessary to comment on the mean selfishness of Obe- 
ron's answer to her appeal in behalf of the distressed earth, as on 
the generosity and faithful friendship that distinguish Titania's 
concluding remarks. Let us peep at the fairy queen in love : 

Tita. I pray thee, gentle mortal, sing again ; 
Mine ear is much enamour'd of thy note — 
So is mine eye enthralled to thy shape ; 
And thy fair virtue's force perforce doth move me, 
On the first view, to say, to swear, I love thee. 

Bot. Methinks, mistress, you should have little reason 
for that ; and yet, to say the truth, Reason and Love 
keep little company together now-a-days. 



Tita. Out of this wood do not desire to go ; 
Thou shalt remain here, whether thou wilt or no. 
I am a spirit, of no common rate ; 
The summer still doth tend upon my state, 
And I do love thee : therefore, go with me ; 
I'll give thee fairies to attend on thee ; 
And they shall fetch thee jewels from the deep, 
And sing while thou on pressed flowers dost sleep 
And I will purge thy mortal grossness so, 



212 TITANIA. 

That thou shalt like an airy spirit go.— 
Peas-blossom ! Cobweb ! Moth ! and Mustard-seed ! 



Be kind and courteous to this gentleman ; 
Hop in his walks, and gambol in his eyes ; 
Feed him with apricocks and dewberries, 
With purple grapes, green figs, and mulberries ; 
The honey bags steal from the humble bees ; 
And, for night-tapers, crop their waxen thighs, 
And light them at the fiery glow-worm's eyes, 
To have my love to bed, and to arise ; 
And pluck the wings from painted butterflies, 
To fan the moon-beams from his sleeping eyes : 
Nod to him, elves, and do him courtesies. 

Come, sit thee down upon this flowery bed, 
While I thy amiable cheeks do coy, 

And stick musk-roses in thy sleek smooth head, 
And kiss thy fair large ears, my gentle joy. 



Or say, sweet love, what thou desir'st to eat. 

Bot. Truly, a peck of provender ; I could munch your 
good dry oats. Methinks I have a great desire to a 
bottle of hay : good hay, sweet hay, hath no fellow. 

Tita. I have a venturous fairy that shall seek 
The squirrel's hoard, and fetch thee new nuts. 

Bot. I had rather have a handful or two of dried peas. 
But, I pray you, let none of your people stir me ; I have 
an exposition of sleep come upon me. 

Tita. Sleep thou, and I will wind thee in my arms. 
Fames, begone — aud be all ways away. 
So doth the woodbine, the sweet honeysuckle, 
Gently entwist — the female ivy so 
Enriugs the barky fingers of the elm. 
O, how I love thee ! how I dote on thee ! 

One glance at the household habits of a fairy court, and then 
we shall have awakened from this Midsummer Night's Dream, 



TITAN I A. 213 

which is "like wandering through a grove oy moonlight," and 
" breathes a sweetness, like odors thrown from beds of flowers : " 

Obe. I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows, 
Where ox-lips and the nodding violet grows — 
Quite over-canopied with lush woodbine, 
With sweet musk-roses, and with eglantine ; 
There sleeps Titania, some time of the night 
Lull'd in these flowers with dances and delight ; 
And there the snake throws her enamell'd skin, 
Weed wide enough to wrap a fairy in. 

Tita. Come, now a roundel, and a fairy song ; 
Then, for the third part of a minute, hence : 
Some to kill cankers in the musk-rose buds ; 
Some war with rear-mice for their leathern wings, 
To make my small elves coats ; and some keep back 
The clamorous owl, that nightly hoots, and wonders 
At our quaint spirits. Sing me now asleep ; 
Then to your offices, and let me rest. 



SONG. 



You spotted snakes with double tongue, 
Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen ; 

Neicts, and blind-worms, do no 
Come not near our fairy queen ! 



J J hilomel, with melody, 
Sing in our sweet lidlaby : 
Lulla, hdhi, lullaby .' hdla, lulla, lullaby ! 
Never harm, nor spell, nor charm, 
Come our lovely lady nigh ; 
So, good night, with lullaby ! 



214 TITANIA. 



II. 



Weaving spiders, come not here ; 

Hence, you long-legged spinners, hence 
Beetles Mack, approach not near ; 

Worm, nor snail, do no offence ! 



Philomel, with melody, 
Sing in our sweet lullaby : 
Lulla, lulla, IttUaby 1 lulla, lulla, lullaby! 
Never harm, nor spell, nor charm, 
Come our lovely lady nigh ; 
So, good night, with lullaby ! 



CONSTANCE. 

Constance, daughter and heiress of Conan IV., Duke of Bre- 
fcagne, was the widow of Geffrey, son of Henry II. of England, and 
mother of Arthur, his heir. John, the younger brother of Geffrey, 
having usurped the English throne, Philip of France demanded its 
restoration to the rightful king — the young Duke of Bretagne ; and 
held himself in readiness to maintain the boy's claim with force of 
arms. 

To chastise this insolent interference with his self-constituted 
authority, King John invaded France with a large army. At first 
he was valiantly repulsed by the French and Austrian troops; 
but, after several indecisive battles, Philip forgot his royal promise 
to Constance, to defend the rights of her sou, and yielded to the 
strong temptation of selfish interests. He concluded a peace with 
King John, by receiving in marriage for his son Louis, the Dau- 
phin, Blanche of Castile, a princess of rare perfections, and niece of 
King John, who dowered her with the very territories that Philip 
had demanded for Arthur. 

But in the midst of the wedding feasts came a " holy legate of 
the Pope," commanding Philip, on pain of excommunication, to 
break his alliance with a king who had flouted the authority of the 



218 CONSTANCE. 

And with the half-blown rose. But fortune, O ! 
She is corrupted, chang'd, and won from thee ; 
She adidterates hourly with thine uncle John ; 
And with her golden hand hath pluck'd on France 
To tread down fair respect of sovereignty. 

Constance is distinguished by her imagination, the natural 
vivacity of which is intensified by suffering till it assumes an 
almost morbid predominance over every other faculty ; this exag- 
gerates even her desperate sorrows, and colors every event with 
its extravagance — hyperbole is its natural language, and frenzy its 
legitimate realm. Her eloquence is the declamation of exalted 
passion, which can scarce find images grand enough to express its 
concentrated vehemence ; of this we have a fine example in her 
refusal to obey the summons of the kings, after their ignoble treaty 
has betrayed her rights : 

Sal. Pardon me, madam — 

I may not go without you to the kings. 

Const. Thou may'st, thou shalt, I will not go with thee. 
I will instruct my sorrows to be proud ; 
For grief is proud, and makes his owner stout. 
To me, and to the state of my great grief, 
Let kings assemble ; for my grief's so great 
That no supporter but the huge firm earth 
Can hold it up : here I and Sorrow sit ; 
Here is my throne — bid kings come bow to it. 

And again, in her interview with their perjured majesties, when 
they do, indeed, come to her : 

K. Phi. By heaven, lady ! you shall have no cause 
To curse the fair proceedings of this day ; 
Have Tnot pawn'd to you my majesty ? 

Const. You have beguil'd me with a counterfeit, 
Resembling majesty — which, being touch'd, and tried, 



CONSTANCE. 219 

Proves valueless. You are forsworn, forsworn : 
You came in arms to spill mine enemies' blood, 
But now, in arms, you strengthen it with yours ; 
The grappling vigor and rough frown of wai- 
ls cold in amity and painted peace ; 
And our oppression hath made up this league : — 
Arm, arm, you heavens, against these perjured kings ! 
A widow cries ; be husband to me, heavens ! 
Let not the hours of this ungodly day 
Wear out the day in peace ; but, ere sunset, 
Set armed discord 'twixt these perjur'd kings ! 
Hear me, O, hear me ! 

Aast. Lady Constance, peace ! 

Const. War ! war ! no peace ! peace is to me a war. 
O Lymoges ! O Austria ! thou dost shame 
That bloody spoil ! Thou slave, thou wretch, thou coward ! 
Thou little valiant, great in villainy ! 
Thou ever strong upon the stronger Bide ! 
Thou fortune's champion, that dost never fight 
But when her humorous ladyship is by 
To teach thee safety ! thou art perjur'd too, 
And sooth'st up greatness. What a fool art thou, 
A ramping fool — to brag, and stamp, and swear, 
Upon my party ! Thou cold-blooded slave, 
Hast thou not spoke like thunder on my side ? 
Been sworn my soldier — bidding me depend 
Upon thy stars, thy fortune, and thy strength ? 
And dost thou now fall over to my foes ? 
Thou wear a lion's hide ! doif it for shame, 
Ami hang a calf's skin on those recreant limbs. 

This last speech, to Austria, is a glory of rage, contempt, and 
sarcasm ; we can almost see the archduke of fair promises " hiding 
his diminished head" from the swelling storm. 

There is something in the bewildered, helpless despair of Con- 
stance that reminds us of Lear ; yet her frenzy is that of a mind 
distraught, not overthrown — she, herself, draws a fine distinction 
between the two mental conditions : 



220 CONSTANCE. 

Thou art not holy to belie me so; 
I am in it mad : this hair I tear is mine ; 
My name is Constance ; I was Geffrey's wife ; 
Young Arthur is my son, and he is lost : 
I am not mad ; — I would to heaven I were ! 
For then 'tis like I should forget myself; 
O, if I could, what grief should I forget ! — 
Preach some philosophy to make me mad, 
And thou shalt he canoniz'd, cardinal ; 
For, being not mad, but sensible of grief, 
My reasonable part produces reason 
How I may be deliver'd of these woes, 
And teaches me to kill or hang myself; 
If I were mad, I should forget my son, 
Or madly think a babe of clouts were he : 
I am not mad ; too well, too well I feel 
The different plague of each calamity. 

But it is not in wild ravings, bitter taunts, lofty invocations, or 
logical arguments, that the eloquence of this unhappy duchess lives 
in our memory ; let us rather turn to those simple, natural strains 
of pathos in which she bewails her lost child — that universal lan- 
guage which goes straight to the heart of the bereaved mother, 
whether in hut or palace, and is understood alike by both, by both 
alike repeated. 

The " holy legate " admonishes her f< >r so immoderately indulg- 
ing her sorrow : 

Const. He talks to me, that never had a son. 

K. Phi. You are as fond of grief as of your child. 

Const. Grief fills the room up of my absent child, 
Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me, 
Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words, 
Remembers me of all his gracious parts, 
Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form ; 
Then have I reason to be fond of Grief. 
Fare you well : had you such a loss as I, 
I could give better comfort than you do. — 



CONSTANCE. 



And father cardinal, I have heard you say- 
That we shall see and know our friends in heaven : 
If that be true, I shall see my hoy again ; 
For, since the birth of Cain, the first male child, 
To him that did but yesterday suspire, 
There was not such a gracious creature born. 
But now will canker sorrow eat my bud, 
And chase the native beauty from his cheek, 
And he will look as hollow as a ghost, 
As dim and meagre as an ague's fit ; 
And so he'll die ; and, rising so again, 
When I shall meet him in the court of heaven 
I shall not know him : therefore never, never 
Must I behold my pretty Arthur more. 
******** 
O lord ! my boy, my Arthur, my fair son ! 
My life, my joy, my food, my all the world ! 
My widow-comfort, and my sorrows' cure ! 



CORDELIA. 

Cordelia, the youngest of three sisters, was a daughter of 
Lear, king of Britain. That venerable monarch, weary of the 
cares of state, having almost fulfilled his allotted time on earth, 
determined to divide his kingdom between his children — two of 
whom had husbands — -that he might pass his last days in honored 
repose. The fond, foolish old father called his daughters together ; 
and making known to them his inclination to share his domain 
among them according to the affection they respectively enter- 
tained for him, he questioned the two married princesses as to the 
fervor of their filial love. Goneril and Kegan replied with all the 
fulsome flattery of mercenary tongues, and so put to the blush the 
true-minded Cordelia, that when it was her turn to spea : she re- 
fused to acknowledge any more affection for her father than her duty 
compelled. This answer so incensed the choleric king that he cast 
her off utterly, and divided her portion between her two sisters. 

There were then at the court of Britain two suitors for Corde- 
lia's hand — the Duke of Burgundy and the King of France : 
when the duke learned that she would be dowerless, he withdrew 
his suit ; but the King of France was so touched by her lofty 
spirit, and her forlorn condition, that he married her, and made 
her queen over his fair kingdom. 



224 CORDELIA. 

The condition on which King Lear had abdicated his sovereign 
rights, in favor of his daughters and their husbands, was : that he, 
attended by a hundred chosen knights, should be entertained at 
their palaces alternately, while he should retain the name and all 
" the additions to a king." 

It was not long before Goneril found it irksome to accommo- 
date her father's attendants, and regarded them as an unnecessary 
expense ; her own servants were therefore instructed to annoy his 
majesty with petty indignities ; and when he remonstrated, she re- 
buffed him with a cool contempt that astounded him. Appealing 
from Goneril to Regan, the unhappy father fared even worse ; for 
the latter co-operated with her sister to divest him of all the out- 
ward shows of state ; and at last she drove him forth in a howling 
storm at night, when the exposure, added to the sharp sense of 
his children's ingratitude, drove the poor old man mad. 

He was blessed, however, in one faithful follower— the Earl of 
Kent, whom he had banished for interceding in behalf of Cordelia, 
but who, in disguise, had returned to the service of his beloved 
master. This loyal nobleman housed the king in his own castle, 
and sent letters to the court of France for Cordelia, who was igno- 
rant of her father's wretchedness. Hastening, with an army con- 
tributed by her husband, to the rescue of her outraged parent, she 
found him almost hopelessly crazed ; but by kind nursing he was 
restored sufficiently to recognize and bless her. Unfortunately 
for the brave and devoted lady, her army was defeated by the 
superior force with which Goneril and Regan opposed it ; Lear and 
Cordelia were consigned to a prison, where she was hung, by order 
of Goneril and her paramour ; and her father, paralyzed by this 
last blow, breathed his last on her beloved corse. 



CORDELIA. 225 

In Cordelia we have an exalted example of pure filial devotion . 
unalloyed by any less heroic passion — a character every attribute 
of which is subordinate to the highest conception of duty. The 
admiration she commands is entirely independent of the lighter 
graces, or those pretty tricks of unconscious coquetry which have 
attained a legitimate position in the "affairs of woman;" she is 
a silent, shy, undemonstrative girl, quite outshone in her father's 
court by the "scornful beauty" and the ready tongues of her 
sisters. 

Compared with any less perfect, but not less charming, lady of 
this sisterhood, Cordelia will appear transcendently superior, by 
as much as she who follows the dictates of true religious princi- 
ple must ever take moral precedence of the creature of mere im- 
pulses, whether of passion or caprice ; but side by side with Goneril 
and Regan — those diabolical creations, who are women only phys- 
ically — she shines an angel of light. It is only by careful study 
of the few master-strokes with which Cordelia is delineated that 
we can make out a faithful portrait of this matchless daughter ; in 
fact, throughout the moving record of madness and crime, of which 
she is the heroine, her " heavenly beauty of soul " is felt rather 
than seen ; although she is almost excluded from the action, her 
purity is ever present to the mind's eye, in dazzling contrast to the 
outer darkness of her surroundings. 

In the first scene, where Cordelia incurs her royal father's dis- 
pleasure, she might, by a superficial observer, be accused of sullen 
obstinacy, in persisting to seem less fond than we know she is, at 
heart ; but it must be remembered that she is not only disgusted 
with her sisters' deceit, and mortified at the doting credulity of 
her father, but that she has been virtually bribed to exceed even 
their bombastic protestations : 



226 CORDELIA. 

* * * * What can you say, to draw 
I A third more opulent than your sisters ? Speak. 

Her loyal soul revolts from such mockery of its clearest duty , 
slie answers with simple truthfulness, not devoid of a trace of sar- 
casm for her sisters' palpable lies; and even imposes restraint 
upon those expressions of fondness which under other circum- 
stances would be natural to her : 

Unhappy that I am, I cannot heave 

My heart into my mouth : I love your majesty 

According to my bond ; nor more, nor less. 

***** Good my lord, 

You have begot me, bred me, loved me ; I 

Return those duties back as are right fit — 

Obey you, love you, and most honor you. 

Why have my sisters husbands, if they say 

They love you all ? Haply, when I shall wed, 

That lord, whose hand must take my plight, shall carry 

Half my love with him, half my care, and duty ; 

Sure, I shall never marry like my sisters, 

To love my father all. 

Lear. But goes this with thy heart ? 

Cor. Ay, good my lord. 

Lear. So young, and so untender ? 

Cor. So young, my lord, and true. 

Lear. Let it be so — thy truth then be thy dower : 
For, by the sacred radiance of the sun, 
The mysteries of Hecate, and the night — 
By all the operations of the orbs, 
From whom we do exist, and cease to be — 
Here I disclaim all my paternal care, 
Propinquity and property of blood, 
And as a stranger to my heart and me 
Hold thee, from this, forever. 

In the next scene, in which Lear summons Cordelia's suitors to 
inform them of her fall from his favor, and to receive their final 



CORDELIA. 227 

decision, her conduct is eminently characteristic ; nothing can ex- 
ceed in serene dignity and inherent honor her appeal to her father, 
in answer to her royal lover's amazed reception of this intelli- 
gence — for which the effect upon her future husband is voucher 
enough : 

France. This is most strange ! 

That she, that even but now was your best object, 
The argument of your praise, balm of your age, 
Most best, most dearest, should in this trice of time 
Commit a thing so monstrous, to dismantle 
So many folds of favor ! Sure, her offence 
Must be of such unnatural degree 
That monsters it, or your fore-vouch'd affection 
Fall into taint : which to believe of her, 
Must be a faith that reason without miracle 
Coidd never plant in me. 

Cor. I yet beseech your majesty, 

(If for I want that glib and oily art, 
To speak, and purpose not ; since what I well intend, 
I'll do't before I speak,) that you make known 
It is no vicious blot, murder, or foulness, 
No unchaste action, or dishonor'd step, 
That hath deprived me of your grace and favor ; 
But even for want of that for which I am richer — 
A still soliciting eye, and such a tongue 
That I am glad I have not, though not to have it 
Hath lost me in your liking. 
******** 
France. Is it but this ? a tardiness in nature, 

Which often leaves the history unspoke 

That it intends to do ? * * * * 

********* 

Fairest Cordelia, thou art most rich, being poor ; 

Most choice, forsaken ; and most lov'd, despis'd ! 

Thee and thy virtues here I seize upon : 

Be it lawful, I take up what's cast away. 

Gods, gods ! 'tis strange, that from their cold'st neglect 

My love should kindle to inflam'd respect. — 



228 CORDELIA. 

Thy dowerless daughter, king, thrown to my chance, 
Is queen of us, of ours, and our fair France ; 
Not all the dukes of wat'rish Burgundy 
Shall buy this unpriz'd precious maid of me. 

In her charge to her unnatural sisters, at parting, she still main- 
tains the calm majesty of demeanor that befits her grave misfor- 
tune: 

The jewels of our father, with wash'd eyes 

Cordelia leaves you. I know you what you are ; 

And, like a sister, am most loath to call 

Your faults as they are nam'd. Use well our father : 

To your professed bosoms I commit him ; 

But yet, alas ! stood I within his grace, 

I would prefer him to a better place. 

So farewell to you both. 

With this, the Cordelia of an incorruptible and somewhat rigid 
virtue disappears, and in her place we have the tenderest child 
that ever blessed a doting father. The following extracts are 
beautifully illustrative of that steadfast self-command, born of a 
most shrinking modesty, which has become habitual with her, even 
on occasions of extraordinary trial, and which, in later examples, is 
too often mistaken for insensibility, pride, or heartlessness : 

Kent. Did your letters pierce the queen to any demon- 
stration of grief? 

Gent. Ay, sir ; she took them, read them in my presence ; 
And now and then an ample tear trill'd down 
Her delicate cheek : it seem'd she was a queen 
Over her passion, who, most rebel-like, 
Sought to be king o'er her. 

Kent. O, then it moved her. 

Gent. Not to a rage; patience and sorrow strove 
Who should express her goodliest. You have seen 
Sunshine and rain at once : her smiles and tears 
Were like a better day. Those happy smiles, 
That play'd on her ripe lip, seem'd not to know 



CORDELIA. 229 

What guests were in her eyes ; which parted thence, 
As pearls from diamonds dropp'd. — In brief, sorrow 
Would be a rarity most belov'd, if all 
Coidd so become it. 

Kent. Made she no verbal question ? 

Gent. 'Faith, once or twice she heav'd the name of father 
Pantingly forth, as if it press'd her heart ; 
Cried, Sisters! sisters! — Shame of ladies ! sisters! 
Kent ! father ! sisters ! What! P the storm V the night? 
Let pity not be believed ! — There she shook 
The holy water from her heavenly eyes, 
And clamor moisten'd : — then away she started, 
To deal with grief alone. 

But the crowning beauty of Cordelia's character, as well as one 
of the master-pieces of this " best tragedy," is achieved in the scene 
where, having returned home to find her father hopelessly crazed 
by his children's cruelty, she bends, a pitying angel, over that sad 
wreck of manhood and of majesty : 

O my dear father ! Restoration hang 
Thy medicine on my lips ; and let this kiss 
Repair those violent harms, that my two sisters 
Have in thy reverence made ! 

Kent. Kind and dear princess. 

Cor. Had you not been their father, these white flakes 
Had challeng'd pity of them. Was this a face 
To be expos'd against the warring winds ? 
To stand against the deep dread-bolted thunder? 
In the most terrible and nimble stroke 
Of quick, cross-lightning ? to watch (poor perdu !) 
With this thin helm ? Mine enemy's dog, 
Though he had bit me, should have stood that night 
Against my fire. And wast thou fain, poor father, 
To hovel thee with swine, and rogues forlorn, 
In short and musty straw ? Alack, alack ! 
'Tis wonder that thy life and wits at once 
Had not concluded all. — He wakes ; speak to him. 

Phys. Madam, do you ; 'tis fittest. 



230 CORDELIA. 

Cor. How does my royal lord ? How fares your majesty ? 
********** 
********** 
***** O, look upon me, sir; 
And hold your hands in benediction o'er me : — 
No, sir, you must not kneel. 

Lear. Pray, do not mock me : 

I am a very foolish, fond old man — 
Fourscore and upward ; and, to deal plainly, 
I fear I am not in my perfect mind. 
Methinks I should know you, and know this man — 
Yet I am doubtful ; for I am mainly ignorant 
What place this is ; and all the skill I have 
Remembers not these garments ; nor I know not 
Where I did lodge last night. Do not laugh at me ; 
For, as I am a man, I think this lady 
To be my child Cordelia. 

Cor. And so I am, I am. 

The great Master has not weakened his imposing work "by a 
single allusion to her mere personality ; let us not then vulgarly 
descend to guess at what he has left veiled, assured that such inner 
glory as Cordelia's would diffuse its radiance over any but a mon- 
strous exterior. If, in conclusion, we confess that Cordelia presents 
to us few points of congeniality on which we may freely hang 
a familiar preference, the acknowledgment can be prejudicial only 
to ourself ; for we feel that to be capable of worthily understand- 
ing and loving her, one must possess virtue as heroic, a heart as 
pure, and a conscience as void of offence, as her own. 



THE ABBESS. 

MmiAA, lady-abbess of a convent at Epliesus, had been, during 
her secular life, the -wife of iEgeon, a -wealthy Syracusan merchant. 
While on a visit to Epiclaninum with her husband, she became the 
mother of twin sons, who were marvellously alike in person, and 
to whom they gave the same name, Antipholus. A poor woman, 
in the inn where JEniilia lodged, gave birth at the same time to 
twin sons, who also precisely resembled each other, and were 
both named Drornio ; so J2geon, for the pretty sentiment of the 
thing, purchased them, with the intention of bringing them up 
with his own boys, to be their companions and servants. 

On then- way home with the four little ones, a terrific storm 
threatened to destroy the ship in which they had taken passage ; 
the sailors abandoned her, in the boats, and left iEgeon and his 
helpless family to their fate. In this extremity the poor gentle- 
man bound his wife, and one Antipholus with his accompanying 
Drornio, to a mast, and secured himself with the other two children 
in the same manner — so that when the vessel sank the spars still 
kept them afloat. 

Emilia was separated from her husband by the violence of the 
sea, but was rescued by some fishermen. iEgeon was picked up 



232 THE ABBESS. 

by a ship which conveyed hiin to Syracuse ; hut for many a day 
the fate of his wife and son remained for him a painful mystery. 

The fishermen who had saved iEmilia landed her in safety at 
Ephesus, hut took the two boys, and sold them to a wealthy noble- 
man ; so the unhappy mother — widowed and childless, as it seemed 
— entered a convent, of which she eventually became the abbess. 

When the Antipholus who was saved with his father had 
grown to manhood, he set out on a journey with his faithful Dro- 
mio, to seek his long-lost mother and brother. Two years had he 
been absent from Syracuse on this almost hopeless errand, when 
his old father, fearing he would lose him also, set forth to find him 
and urge him to return. 

iEgeon had journeyed year after year through distant coun- 
tries, without discovering a trace of his son, when finally he came 
to Ephesus, and found that by so doing he had forfeited his life — 
according to an Ephesian law which forbade a Syracusan to enter 
the city, on pain of death. 

The Antipholus sold by the fisherman had been adopted by 
the duke of Ephesus, and was living in that city, married to a 
wealthy lady named Adriana. The other Antipholus, by a happy 
chance, came to Ephesus in search of his brother, while iEgeon was 
there under sentence of death ; and through a bewildering concate- 
nation of fortuitous circumstances, the whole family were once more 
united. It is almost unnecessary to add that the duke gladly par- 
doned the father of his foster-son, and rejoiced with them that re- 
joiced. 

The Comedy of Errors turns chiefly on the ludicrous mistakes 
arising out of the personal resemblance between the two Antipho- 
luses, and the two Dromios. 



THE ABBESS. 233 

The Abbess is a woman of sound sense, reliable judgment, and 
ready knowledge of human nature. As her position — attained 
through personal merit alone — indicates, she is of grave presence, 
and held in high esteem for her piety and good works ; her char- 
acter is marked by dignified simplicity, but at the same time 
evinces capacity for firm, decisive action. 

The scene where, having given refuge to the Syracusan An- 
iipholus, whom Adriana pursues with her servants, believing him 
to be her husband, and mad, the Abbess " betrays " that perplexed 
lady " to her own reproof," finely displays the finesse so requisite 
in her calling, and which she possesses in an eminent degree : 

Abb. Be quiet, people ! Wherefore throng you hither ? 

Adr. To fetch my poor distracted husband hence : 
Let us come in, that we may bind him fast, 
And bear him home for his recovery. 
* * ******** 

Abb. How long hath this possession held the man ? 

Adr. This week he hath been heavy, sour, sad, 
And much, much different from the man he was ; 
But, till this afternoon, his passion 
Ne'er brake into extremity of rage. 

Abb. Hath he not lost much wealth by wreck at sea — 
Buried some dear friend ? Hath not else his eye 
Stray'd his affection in unlawful love ? — 
A sin prevailing much in youthful men, 
Who give their eyes the liberty of gazing. 
Which of these sorrows is he subject to? 

Adr. To none of these, except it be the last — 
Namely some love, that drew him oft from home. 

Abb. You should for that have reprehended him. 

Adr. Why, so I did. 

Abb. Ay, but not rough enough. 

Adr. As roughly as my modesty would let me. 

Abb. Haply, in private. 

Adr. And in assemblies too. 

Abb. Ay, but not enough. 



234 THE ABBESS. 

Adr. It was the copy of our conference : 
In bed, he slept not for my urging it ; 
At boai-d, he fed not for my urging it ; 
Alone, it was the subject of my theme ; 
In company, I often glanced it ; 
Still did I tell him it was vile and bad. 

Abb. And thereof came it that the man was mad ; 
The venom clamors of a jealous woman 
Poison more deadly than a mad dog's tooth. 
It seems his sleeps were hinder'd by thy railing ; 
And therefore comes it that his head is light. 
Thou say'st his meat was sauc'd with thy upbraidings : 
Unquiet meals make ill digestions — 
Thereof the raging fire of fever bred ; 
And what's a fever but a fit of madness ? 
Thou say'st his sports wore hinder'd by thy brawls : 
Sweet recreation barr'd, what doth ensue 
But moody and dull Melancholy, 
(Kinsman to grim and comfortless Despair,) 
And, at her heels, a huge infectious troop 
Of pale distemperatures, and foes to life ? 
In food, in sport, and life-preserving rest 
To be disturb'd, would mad or man or beast : 
The consequence is then, thy jealous fits 
Have scar'd thy husband from the use of wits. 

An episode of the same adventure shows our lady-ahbess in- 
vested with her canonical authority : 

Adr. ********* 
Good people, enter, and lay hold on him ! 

Abb. No, not a creature enters in my house. 

Adr. Then let your servants bring my husband forth. 

Abb. Neither ; he took this place for sanctuary, 
And it shall privilege him from your hands 
Till I have brought him to his wits again, 
Or lose my labor in assaying it. 

Adr. I will attend my husband, be his nurse, 
Diet his sickness ; for it is my office, 



THE ABBESS. 235 

And will have no attorney but myself; 

And therefore let me have him home with me. 

Abb. Be patient ; for I will not let him stir, 
Till I have used the approved means I have, 
With wholesome syrups, drugs, and holy prayers, 
To make of him a formal man again : 
It is a branch and parcel of mine oath, 
A charitable duty of my order ; 
Therefore depart, and leave him here with me. 

Adr. I will not hence, and leave my husband here ; 
And ill it doth beseem your holiness, 
To separate the husband and the wife. 

Abb. Be quiet, and depart ; thou shalt not have him. 

Yet, at the last, we see that twenty-five years of self-mortifica- 
tion, and contempt of earthly ties, have failed to eradicate the 
strong affections of JEniilia, the wife and the mother. Our sym- 
pathy with this Rachel, who mourned for her children because she 
believed they were not, is as cordial as our congratulations on their 
restoration are sincere ; and to her gracious invitation we reply in 
the words of the duke — " With all our heart, we'll gossip at this 
feast : " 

Abb. * * * Vouchsafe to take the pains 
To go with us into the abbey here, 
And hear at large discoursed all our fortunes ; 
And all that arc assembled in this place, 
That by this sympathized one day's error 
Have suffer'd wrong, go, keep us company, 
And we shall make full satisfaction. — 
Twenty-five years have I but gone in travail 
Of you, my sons ; nor, till this present hour, 
My heavy burdens are delivered : — 
The duke, my husband, and my children both, 
And you, the calendars of their nativity, 
Go to a gossip's feast, and go with me ; 
After so long grief, such nativity ! 






KATHARINE OF ARRAGO^. 

Queen Katharine, of sorrowful memory, was the daughter of 
Ferdinand, king of Arragon, and first wife of the infamous Henry 
VIII. of England. In her seventeenth year she was married to 
Arthur, prince of Wales, the eldest son of Henry VII. ; but he 
died a few months after; and her royal father-in-law, anxious to 
secure the alliance, as well as the magnificent dowry, of the Infanta, 
procured a dispensation from the Pope to betroth her to his second 
son, Henry, then a chdd of twelve years. 

This marriage was consummated five years later, when Henry 
had ascended the throne. Katharine was six years older than her 
boy-husband, and they possessed not a point of character in com- 
mon ; yet he was devotedly attached to her, and they had lived in 
undisturbed harmony for nearly twenty years, when the beautiful 
Anne Bullen came to court, as maid of honor to the queen. 

Henry was fascinated by this lady's charms, and as she was 
proof against a dishonorable suit, he proceeded to rid himself of 
Katharine by divorcee-pretending that his conscience would no 
longer permit him to cohabit with his brother's widow, and that 
his marriage with her was illegal. 

The wretched queen opposed this contemplated degrading of 



238 KATHARINE OF ARRAGON. 

herself and daughter with all the spirit and pertinacity of her 
Spanish blood ; but the divorce, which to the last she refused to 
acknowledge, was granted by Archbishop Crannier, in open con- 
tempt of the Pope's authority ; and Anne Bullen, whom Henry 
had secretly married previous to that decision, was crowned at 
Westminster with magnificent ceremony. 

The play of King Henry VIII., of which Katharine is the he- 
roine, extends through about twelve years of his abominable reign, 
commencing with the disgrace of the Duke of Buckingham, and 
ending with the christening of Elizabeth, infant daughter of Anne 
Bulleu, previous to which, by an allowable anachronism, the death 
of the heart-broken queen occurs. 



The Katharine of King Henry VIII. is, almost without doubt, 
a faithful portrait of the unhappy lady whose virtues and wrongs 
command a tribute of pity from all true and tender hearts. 

Apart from her overweening pride of birth, and jealous exac- 
tion of the homage due to her exalted rank, which was engendered 
in her Castilian blood — aside from her austere and narrow-minded 
bigotry, the result of a rigorous education — Katharine was re- 
markable for her quiet, domestic virtues, conjugal devotion, simple 
tastes, and genuine piety. She was not endowed with the brilliant 
mental gifts of her mother, the famous Isabella ; but that her in- 
tellect was by no means of low order is proved by the decided 
influence she exerted over her violent husband, and by the confi- 
dence with which, in his absence, he intrusted to her judgment 
affairs of national importance. 

In his portrait of Katharine, Shakspeare has followed historical 
records for all personal details, with the most conscientious exact- 



KATHARINE OF ARRAGON. 239 

ness, depending for effect simply on the unembellished story of her 
misfortunes ; in many of her speeches the words are the very 
same imputed to her by the old chroniclers. 

The queen first appears on the scene of action in all the enjoy- 
ment of acknowledged dignities, and her royal husband's respect 
and favor ; her appeal to Henry in behalf of his people, mercilessly 
taxed by Wolsey, which is granted even before it is concluded, is 
a natural emanation from her strict integrity, her kindness of heart, 
and her sound judgment. But our sympathies for her are not 
fairly aroused until, stripped of all the insignia of her state, all the 
honors of her chaste matronhood, she stands arraigned for trial, 
one of the most pitiful objects in history — the devoted wife of 
twenty years' fidelity, the mother of many children, repudiated 
by her husband for no more honorable reason than the gratification 
of a new and illicit passion. 

The perfectly natural pathos of her address to the king, on 
this occasion, is exquisite, even as a merely dramatic effect, but 
doubly touching in that it is a faithful paraphrase of the very 
words uttered by the queen in her own defence : 

Sir, I desire you do me right and justice, 

And to bestow your pity on me ; for 

I am a most poor woman, and a stranger, 

Born out of your dominions — having here 

No judge indifferent, nor no more assurance 

Of equal friendship and proceeding. Alas, sir, 

In what have I offended you ? what cause 

Hath my behavior given to your displeasure, 

That thus you should proceed to put me off, 

And take your good grace from me ? Heaven witness, 

I have been to you a true and humble wife, 

At all times to your will conformable — 

Ever in fear to kindle your dislike — 

Yea, subject to your countenance, glad, or sorry, 

As I saw it inclin'd. When was the hour 



240 KATHARINE OF ARRAGON. 

I ever contradicted your desire, 

Or made it not mine too ? Or which of your friends 

Have I not strove to love, although I knew 

He were mine enemy ? What friend of mine 

That had to him deriv'd your anger, did I 

Continue in my liking ? nay, gave notice 

He was from thence discharg'd ? Sir, call to mind 

That I have been your wife, in this obedience, 

Upward of twenty years, and have been blest 

With many children by you ; if, in the course 

And process of this time, you can report, 

And prove it too, against mine honor aught, 

My bond to wedlock, or my love and duty, 

Against your sacred person — in God's name, 

Turn me away, and let the foul'st contempt 

Shut door upon me ; and so give me up 

To the sharpest kind of justice. 

In characteristic contrast to this is her conference with Cardi- 
nal Wolsey, wherein, in spite of the severe discipline of her daily 
life, her hot temper gets the better of her self-control, and re- 
lieves its' virtuous indiguation in rebukes as scathing as they are 
shrewd : 

Lord cardinal, 
To you I speak. 

***** I do believe, 
Induc'd by potent circumstances, that 
You are mine enemy ; and make my challenge — 
You shall not be my judge ; for it is you 
Have blown this coal betwixt my lord and me, — 
Which God's dew quench ! — Therefore, I say again, 
I utterly abhor, yea, from my soul 
Refuse you for my judge, whom, yet once more, 
I hold my most malicious foe, and think not 
At all a friend to truth. 

Wol. I do profess 

You speak not like yourself, who ever yet 
Have stood to charity, and display'd the effects 



KATHARINE OF ARRAGON. 241 

Of disposition gentle, and of wisdom 

O'ertopping woman's power. Madam, you do me wrong : 

I have 110 spleen against you. * * * * 

Q. Kath. My lord, my lord, 

I am a simple woman, much too weak 
To oppose your cunning. You are meek, and kumble- 

moutk'd ; 
You sign your place and calling in full seeming 
With meekness and humility ; but your heart 
Is cramm'd with arrogancy, spleen, and pride. 
You have, by fortune, and his highness' favors, 
Gone slightly o'er low steps ; and now arc mounted 
Where powers are your retainers ; and your words, 
Domestics to you, serve your will, as 't please 
Yourself pronounce their office. I must tell you, 
You tender more your person's honor than 
Your high profession spiritual ; that again 
I do refuse you for my judge ; and here, 
Before you all, appeal unto the Pope, 
To bring my whole cause 'fore his holiness, 
And to be judg'd by him. 

Iii the scene where she gives audience to the Cardinals, Wolsey 
and Campeius (Campeggio), her individuality, with all its strong 
points of contrast, is admirably delineated— her simple, house- 
wifely habits opposed to her jealous exaction of the honors which 
are her birthright : 

Q. Kath ****** 

***** I was set at work 

Among my maids ; full little, God knows, looking 

Either for such men, or such business. 

For her sake that I have been, (for I feel 

The last fit of my greatness,) good your graces, 

Let me have time and counsel for my cause ; 

Alas ! I am a woman, friendless, hopeless. 



Cam. I would your grace 

Would leave your griefs, and take my counsel. 
31 



242 KATHARINE OF ARRAGON. 

Q. Kath. How, sir? 

Cam. Put your main cause into the king's protection ; 
He's loving, and most gracious ; 'twill be much 
Both for your honor better, and your cause ; 
For if the trial of the law o'ertake you, 
You'll part away disgrac'd. 

Wol. He tells you rightly. 

Q. Kath. Ye tell me what ye wish for both, my ruin. 
Is this your Christian counsel ? Out upon ye ! 
Heaven is above all yet ; there sits a judge 
That no king can corrupt. 

Cam. Your rage mistakes us. 

Q. Kath. The more shame for ye ; holy men I thought ye — 
Upon my soul, two reverend cardinal virtues ; 
But cardinal sins, and hollow hearts, I fear ye : 
Mend them, for shame, my lords. Is this your comfort — 
The cordial that ye bring a wretched lady, 
A woman lost among ye, laugh'd at, scorn'd ? 

Woe upon ye, 
And all such false professors ! "Would ye have me 
(If you have any justice, any pity — 
If ye be any thing but churchmen's habits) 
Put my sick cause into his hands that hates me ? 

And this fearless denunciation of the hypocrisy of her saintly 
visitors, who would persuade her to relinquish her pretensions as 
queen-consort, is again contrasted with the most pitiful self-con- 
templation : 

Alas ! he has banish'd me his bed already — 

His love, too long ago : * * * 

* * * Have I liv'd thus long — (let me speak myself, 

Since virtue finds no friends,) — a wife, a true one — 

A woman (I dare say, without vain-glory,) 

Never yet branded with suspicion ? 

Have I with all my full affections 

Still met the king, lov'd him next heaven, obey'd him, 

Been, out of fondness, superstitious to him, 

Almost forgot my prayers to content him ? 



KATHARINE OF ARRAGON. 243 

And am I thus rewarded? 'Tis not well, lords. 
Bring me a constant woman to her husband, 
One that ne'er dream'd a joy beyond his pleasure, 
And to that woman, when she has done most, 
Yet will I add an honor, — a great patience. 

'Would I had never trod this English earth, 
Or felt the flatteries that grow upon it ! 
Ye have angels' faces, but Heaven knows your hearts. 
What will become of me now, wretched lady ? 
I am the most unhappy woman living, — 
Shipwreck'd upon a kingdom where no pity, 
No friends, no hope ; no kindred weep for me, 
Almost no grave allow'd me : — Like the lily, 
That once was mistress of the field, and flourish'd, 
I'll hang my head, and perish. 

Katharine's estimate of the popular feeling with regard to her- 
self was not altogether just to English hearts; her cause elicited 
much sympathy, much tender pity — especially among the women, 
who in her wrongs saw their own rights threatened — but it was 
timid and unavailing. Her virtues were universally acknowledged ; 
and of two beautiful tributes to her worth, the first, which Shak- 
speare has ascribed to her husband, is historically attested : 



That man i' the world who shall report he has 
A better wife, let him in nought be trusted 
For speaking false in that. Thou art, alone, 
(If thy rare qualities, sweet gentleness, 
Thy meekness saint-like, wife-like government, 
Obeying in commanding, — and thy parts, 
Sovereign and pious else, could speak thee out,) 
The queen of earthly queens : — She is noble born : 
And like her true nobility she has 
Carried herself towards me. 

He counsels a divorce — a loss of her 
That, like a jewel, has hung twenty years 



244 KATHARINE OF ARRAGON. 

About his neck, yet never lost her lustre — 
Of her that loves him with that excellence 
That angels love good men with — even of her 
That, when the greatest stroke of fortune falls, 
"Will bless the king. 

The death of Queen Katharine — who lives to see her beautiful 
supplanter elevated to the throne she humbly waited on, and her 
own daughter, Mary, illegitimked to make way for new heirs — is 
full of majestic pathos. Her long probation of trial, which in a 
less heroic woman would have subdued every vestige of pride, had 
served but to intensify her ruling passion, fulfilling her own words : 
" nothing but death shall e'er divorce my dignities." 

Still constant in her duty and grave affection to Henry, she 
dictates a farewell letter to him, over which even he, monster as 
he is, sheds tears ; and having carefully instructed her women as 
to their last sad offices, she gives up her troubled ghost : 

I thank you, honest lord. Remember me 
In all humility unto his highness : 
Say his long trouble now is passing 
Oyt of this world ; tell him in death I bless'd him, 
For so I will. — Mine eyes grow dim. — Farewell, 
My lord ! — Griffith, farewell ! — Nay, Patience, 
You must not leave me yet. I must to bed ; 
Call in more women. — When I am dead, good wench, 
Let me be used with honor ; strew me over 
With maiden flowers, that all the world may know 
I was a chaste wife to my grave ; embalm me, 
Then lay me forth ; although unqueen'd, yet like 
A queen, and daughter to a king, inter me. 
I can no more. — * * * * 

* * ****** 

Pat. Do you note 

How much her grace is alter'd on a sudden — 
How long her face is drawn ? How pale she looks, 
And of an earthly cold ! Mark you her eyes ? 

Orif. She is going, wench ; pray, pray ! 



ANtfE BULLEN. . 

Anne Bulled was the daughter of Sir Thomas Bullen, and 
second wife to Henry VIII. of England. While still very young, 
slie, as maid of honor, accompanied Henry's sister, the Princess 
Mary, to France, when the latter was united to Louis XII. ;• and 
afterwards she served, in the same capacity in the households of 
several royal ladies of that country. On returning home she was 
appointed to attend on Queen Katharine of Arragon, and at once 
entered upon her elegant duties. 

In the story of Henry's first wife, Katharine, we have told how- 
Anne supplanted her mistress iu the affections of her husbandj 
and how, for her sake, the Spanish woman was put away, and the 
famous courtdjeauty crowned queen. Of this marriage was born 
Elizabeth, with whose christening the play of Kimj Henry VIII. 
concludes. 

Anne Bullen's supremacy over the fickle mind of her royal 
husband was of but short duration ; for she, in her turn, was sup- 
planted by one of her maids of honor, Jane Seymour. Anne was 
accused of infidelity, tried, and condemned to die ; she suffered on 
the scaffold, only a few months after the death of Katharine. 



246 ANNEBULLEN. 

Anne Bullen reminds ns of one of those rarer hot-house plants, 
which, perfected in an artificial atmosphere, exposed only to influ- 
ences quite foreign to their nature, still retain much of their origi- 
nal freshness and perfume. Her whole life, from childhood, was 
passed amid the dissolute surroundings, the unwholesome pleasures, 
the empty etiquette of a court ; she was surpassingly beautiful, 
gay, fascinating, witty. While yet a young woman — of twenty- 
five or thereabouts — she came to be maid of honor to Katharine, 
fresh from the careless coquetries and the lax principles of the 
French court, where she had been a favorite belle ; to Henry, 
therefore, her sparkling vivacity presented a welcome contrast to 
the distasteful austerity of his wife. 

Yet with all her vanity, her love of display, her giddy enjoy- 
ment of the homage her charms commanded, this our Anne Bul- 
len is gentle, compassionate, affectionate. Shakspeare has, with 
exceeding skill, introduced her plaintively commenting on the 
much agitated question of the queen's divorce, of which she already 
suspects herself the cause, though she dare not, for an instant, pon 
der the certain consequences, so much does she desire, yet fear 
them. It is noticeable that Anne does not sympathize with her 
mistress in her conjugal distress — as would be most natural to a 
young and love-inspiring woman — but only in her loss of position : 

Anne. Not for that neither ; — here's the pang that pinches : 
His highness having liv'd so long with her ; and she 
So good a lady, that no tongue could ever 
Pronounce dishonor of her,— by my life, 
She never knew harm-doing ! — O now, after 
So many courses of the sun enthron'd, 
Still growing in a majesty and pomp — the which 
To leave is a thousand-fold more hitter than 
'Tis sweet at first to acquire — after this process 
To give her the avaunt ! it is a pity 
Would move a monster. 



ANNE BULLEN. 247 

Old L. Hearts of most hard temper 

Melt and lament for her. 

Anne. O, God's will ! much better 

She had never known pomp : though it be temporal, 
Yet, if that quarrel fortune do divorce 
It from the bearer, 'tis a sufferance, panging 
As soul and body's severing. 

Old L. Alas, poor lady ! 

She's a stranger now again. 

Anne. So much the more 

Must pity drop upon her. Verily, 
I swear, 'tis better to be lowly born, 
And range with humble livers in content, 
Than to be perk'd up in a glistering grief, 
And wear a golden sorrow. 



By my troth, 
I would not be a queen ! 

Old L. Beshrew me, I would — 

And so would you, 
For all this spice of your hypocrisy : 
You, that have so fair parts of woman on you, 
Have too a woman's heart, which ever yet 
Affected eminence, wealth, sovereignty — 
Which, to say sooth, are blessings, and which gifts 
(Saving your mincing) the capacity 
Of your soft cheveril conscience would receive, 
If you might please to stretch it. 

Anne. Nay, good troth, — 

Old JL. Yes, troth, and troth ! — You would not be a queen ? 

Anne. No, not for all the riches under heaven. 

Old L. 'Tis strange : a three-pence bowed would hire me, 
Old as I am, to queen it. 

And this is not hypocrisy, but a manifestation of weakness — 
when we consider " what follows " — far more culpable in its results. 
Even as Anne is conversing with the Old Lady, the lord chamber- 
lain waits on her, to bestow a title upon her : 



248 ANNE BULLEN. 

Cham. Good morrow, ladies. What were »t worth to know 
The secret of your conference ? 

Anne. My good lord, 

Not your demand ; it values not your asking : 
Our mistress' sorrows we were pitying. 

Cham. It was a gentle business, and becoming 
The action of good women. There is hope 
All will be well. 

Anne. Now I pray God, amen ! 

Cham. You bear a gentle mind, and heavenly blessings 
Follow such creatures. That you may, fair lady, 
Perceive I speak sincerely, and high note's 
Ta'en of your many virtues, the king's majesty 
Commends his good opinion to you, and 
Does purpose honor to you, no less flowing 
Than marchioness of Pembroke ; to which title 
A thousand pound a-year, annual support, 
Out of his grace he adds. 

Anne. I do not know 

What kind of my obedience I should tender ; 
More than my all is nothing ; nor my prayers 
Are not words duly hallow'd, nor my wishes 
More worth than empty vanities ; yet prayers, and wishes, 
Are all I can return. 'Beseech your lordship, 
Vouchsafe to speak my thanks, and my obedience, 
As from a blushing handmaid to his highness — 
Whose health and royalty I pray for. 

Cham. Lady, 

I shall not fail to approve the fair conceit 
The king hath of you. — I have perus'd her well ! 

[Aside. 
Beauty and honor in her are so mingled 
That they have caught the king. * * * 



OldL. ******* 
The marchioness of Pembroke ! 
A thousand pounds a-year, for pure respect ! 
No other obligation : By my life, 
That promises more thousands ! Honor's train 
Is longer than his foreskirt. By this time, 



ANNE BULLEN. 249 

I know, your back will bear a duchess ; — Say, 
Are you not stronger than you were ? 

Anne. Good lady, 

Make yourself mirth with your particular fancy, 
And leave me out on 't. 'Would I had no being, 
If this salute my blood a jot ; it faints me, 
To think what follows. 
The queen is comfortless, and we forgetful, 
In our long absence. Pray, do not deliver 
What here you have heard, to her. 
OldL. What do you think me ? 

Anne Bullen's errors spring from innate weakness of character, 
deplorably aggravated by a pernicious education. Her vanity lays 
successful snares for her good impulses — impulses only, they never 
rise to the dignity of principle. She can pity her royal rival from 
her very soul ; but when she is brought face to face with the daz- 
zling temptation, she is not sufficiently heroic to refuse for her fair 
brows the diadem of a betrayed wife, or the wooing of a guilty 
husband for her dainty hand. It may indeed " faint her to think 
what follows " — as well it might, poor lady ! — but the power to 
resist is not in her. 

To the scene of her coronation, at Westminster Abbey, we 
must look for the most striking mention of her personal beauty : 

The rich stream 

Of lords and ladies, having brought the queen 

To a prepar'd place in the choir, fell off 

A distance from her, while her grace sat down 

To rest a while, some half an hour or so, 

In a rich chair of state, opposing freely 

The beauty of her person to the people; 

******* 

* * * * which when the people 
Had the full view of, such a noise arose 
As the shrouds make at sea in a stiff tempest, 
32 



250 ANNE BULLEN. 

As loud, and to as many tunes : hats, cloaks, 
(Doublets, I think,) flew up ; and had their faces 
Been loose, this day they had been lost. Such joy 
I never saw before. ****** 
* # * * ****** 

At length her grace rose, and with modest paces 
Came to the altar, where she kneel'd, and, saint-like, 
Cast her fair eyes to heaven, and prayed devoutly. 
Then rose again, and bow'd her to the people ; 
When by the archbishop of Canterbury 
She had all the royal makings of a queen : 
As holy oil, Edward Confessor's crown, 
The rod, and bird of peace — and all such emblems 
Laid nobly on her ; which perform'd, the choir, 
"With all the choicest music of the kingdom, 
Together sung Te Deum. So she parted, 
And with the same full state pac'd back again 
To York-place, where the feast is held. 



THE PRINCESS OF FRANCE. 

This royal lady, while yet a maiden, was despatched by her 
bed-ridden father, the King of France, on an important mission to 
the court of Ferdinand, King of Navarre, to confer with that 
prince concerning the surrender of Aquitaine — a fair domain then 
in his possession, but to which France laid claim. 

As the august party approached Navarre, the princess learned 
that his majesty, with sundry of his gentlemen, had recently made 
a solemn vow to devote the coming three years to painful study — 
to mortify the flesh by fasting, to speak to no woman, and to for- 
bid the approach of any woman within a mile of the royal palace. 

So the lady halted, even where she was, and sent a messenger 
within the gates, to King Ferdinand, craving an interview " on seri- 
ous business." But the king, already informed of her approach, 
had taken counsel with his fellow-devotees, and, concluding that 
this must constitute an exception to the rigor of then- abstinence, 
was already on the road, gallantly attended, to bid her highness 
welcome to Navarre. Much to his mortification he was compelled, 
for his oath's sake, to deny the princess, and her suite, access to his 
court : but he caused tents to be erected at some distance from the 



252 THE PRINCESS OF FRANCE. 

palace, and entertained them with great splendor — he and his 
favorite gentlemen paying their respects daily to the fair em- 



The result of these visits to the lively French maids was, as 
might be anticipated, fatal to the peace of the "matchless Na- 
varre" and his lords ; his majesty fell in love with the princess at 
sight, and his followers were severally fascinated by her highness's 
ladies. The merry demoiselles amused themselves to their hearts' 
content with the love-making of the amateur ascetics — passing the 
days in sports, invented for their entertainment by their lovers, 
and all the graceful coquetries in which the ladies of that nation 
are expert. 

But in the midst of the merry-making came a messenger from 
France, with the sad intelligence of the king's death ; and at once 
preparations were made for the princess's return home. And now 
Navarre and his lords urged their suits more seriously ; but the 
ladies showed themselves, by their answers, as wise as they were 
fair and witty : the princess set the example by condemning her 
royal suitor to a twelvemonth of severe seclusion, to expiate his 
broken oaths ; and her ladies imitated their mistress in the dis- 
position of their lovers, imposing upon each some penance adapted 
to his peculiar case. 



This " French king's daughter " is drawn after the established 
model for princesses — " a maid of grace and complete majesty," 
beautiful, of imposing presence, and much given to a sententious 
sort of wit. But under all her ostentation and moral formalities, 
which seem assumed as necessary addenda to her rank, she is a 
natural woman in her love of admiration, coquetry, and frolic. 



THE PRINCESS OF FRANCE. 253 

At first, somewhat piqued at being compelled " to attend like 
humbly-visag'd suitors," on the king's nigh will — herself, a mon- 
arch's daughter, " lodged iu a field, like one that came to besiege 
his court," rather than to demand a right — the princess receives 
the royal courtesy with sharp retorts : 

King. Fair princess, welcome to the court of Navarre. 

Prin. Fair I give you back again; and welcome I 
have not yet : the roof of this court is too high to be 
yours ; and welcome to the wild fields too base to be 
mine. 

King. You shall be welcome, madam, to my court. 

Prin. I will be welcome then ; conduct me thither. 

King. Hear me, dear lady ; I have sworn an oath. 

Prin. Our lady help my lord ! he'll be forsworn. 

King. Not for the world, fair madam, by my will. 

Prin. "Why, will shall break it — will, and nothing else. 

King. Your ladyship is ignorant what it is. 

Prin. Were my lord so, his ignorance were wise, 
Where now his knowledge must prove ignorance. 
I hear your grace hath sworn out house-keeping : 
'Tis deadly sin to keep that oath, my lord — 
And sin to break it. 

But pardon me — I am too sudden bold ; 
To teach a teacher ill beseemeth me. 
Vouchsafe to read the purpose of my coming, 
And suddenly resolve me in my suit. 

But all more dignified emotions soon yield to her mischiev- 
ous enjoyment of the ludicrous plight of these gentlemen-hermits, 
who fall in love with the first women they meet, after then- loud 
denunciations of the sex. Notwithstanding then- hearty response 
to the protestations of the gallant Navarrese, the princess and her 
ladies spare no opportunity to heap humiliations upon them : mock- 
ing their amorous verses as "huge translations of hypocrisy, vilely 
compil'd " and " too long by half a mile ; " turning their elaborate 



254 THE PRINCESS OF FRANCE. 

entertainments to ridicule ; and yet, withal, making themselves 
more and more fascinating to the infatuated knights. But when 
the announcement of the death of the King of France puts an end 
to their mad " revels, dances, masks, and merry hours," the princess, 
recalled to her stateliness, apologizes for their perhaps indecorous 
folly , with a dignity truly royal : 

I thank you, gracious lords, 
For all your fair endeavors, and entreat, 
Out of a new-sad soul, that you vouchsafe, 
In your rich wisdom, to excuse, or hide, 
The liberal opposition of our spirits ; 
If over boldly we have borne ourselves 
In the converse of breath, your gentleness 
Was guilty of it. — Farewell, worthy lord ! 
A heavy heart bears not an humble tongue : 
Excuse me so, coming so short of thanks 
For my great suit so easily obtain'd. 

And her reply to Navarre, that " sole inheritor of all perfections 
that a man may owe," when in good earnest he proffers his heart-, 
is marked by sound sense, and jealous regard for her honor, as well 
as by the chivalric spirit of the time, when a lady's love was not to 
be had for the asking, however her own heart might " own the 
soft impeachment : " 

We have receiv'd your letters, full of love — 
Tour favors, the ambassadors of love ; 
And in our maiden council rated them 
At courtship, pleasant jest, and courtesy, 
As bombast, and as lining to the time : 
But more devout than this, in our respects, 
Have we not been ; and therefore met your loves 
In their own fashion, like a merriment. 

Dum. Our letters, madam, show'd much more than jest. 

Long. So did our looks. 



THE PRINCESS OF FRANCE. 255 

King. Now, at the latest minute of the hour, 
Grant us your loves. 

JPrin. A time, methinks, too short 

To make a world-without-end bargain in. 
No, no, my lord; your grace is perjur'd much — 
Full of dear guiltiness ; and therefore this — 
If for my love (as there is no such cause) 
You will do aught, this shall you do for me : 
Your oath I will not trust ; but go with speed 
To some forlorn and naked hermitage, 
Remote from all the pleasures of the world ; 
There stay, until the twelve celestial signs 
Have brought about their annual reckoning ; 
If this austere insociable life 
Change not your offer made in heat of blood — 
If frosts, and fasts, hard lodging, and thin weeds, 
Nip not the gaudy blossoms of your love, 
But that it bear this trial, and last love — 
Then, at the expiration of the year, 
Come challenge, challenge me by these deserts, 
And, by this virgin palm, now kissing thine, 
I will be thine ; and, till that instant, shut 
My woeful self up in a mourning house, 
Raining the tears of lamentation 
For the remembrance of my father's death. 
If this thou do deny, let our hands part — 
Neither intitled in the other's heart. 

The opening address of the princess is, of course, only a coquet- 
tish ruse, not to be thought " too quickly won " — no one is better 
assured than she of the sincerity of the passion conveyed in those 
fantastic letters, and the rich gifts which bid fair to " wall about 
with diamonds" the "girls of France;" and none more happily 
confident that these " moon-like men " will steadfastly devote their 
twelvemonth of probation to the consummation of their loves. 



MARGARET OF AN JO IT. 

The eventful history of this celebrated princess, who " excelled 
all other in beauty and favor, as in wit and policy," constitutes the 
leading interest of the tedious, three-parted tragedy of King 
Henry VI., wherein she appears, first as the daughter of Eeignier, 
Duke of Anjou and Count of Provence, and afterwards as Queen 
Margaret of England, wife of Henry VI. 

The action of this play, the legitimacy of which has been dis- 
puted and maintained, with equal astuteness, by Shakspearian schol- 
ars, is laid amid the turbulent scenes of the York and Lancaster 
struggle. Part First opens with the death of Henry V., whereupon 
his youthful son, Henry, ascends the throne under the protec- 
torate of his uncle, the Duke of Gloster ; it treats more particu- 
larly of the war with France, memorable for the heroism of Joan 
of Arc. In Part Second, the young king is married to the Princess 
Margaret of Anjou, who prevails upon her weak-minded husband 
to assume the reins of government — soon after which the kingdom 
is embroiled in the civil War of the Roses ; while Part Third is oc- 
cupied with Henry's deposition from the throne, and Margaret's 
intriguing efforts to reinstate him — concluding with his murder by 
the Duke of Gloster. 



258 MARGARET OF ANJOU. 

Were the Margaret of Shakspeare— for it is not the Margaret 
of History of Avhoni we have to speak — invested with any personal 
claims to our pathetic interest, a more pitiful picture than that 
afforded by the simple circumstances of her story could scarcely 
be offered to our sympathetic contemplation. A woman of ex- 
celling beauty and accomplishments, of indomitable spirit and 
unquailing courage, who, having been elevated to the exalted 
station of England's queen, lives to see her husband treacher- 
ously deposed from his throne, and finally murdered — her son 
having suffered the same fate before her eyes ; her enemies in 
the full enjoyment of their guilty triumph ; herself an outcast, so 
wretched that her life is not thought worth the taking: such a 
woman would seem to constitute an object of commiseration for 
the sternest beholder, aside from all individual attributes whatso- 
ever ; but Shakspeare has converted pity into detestation, by de- 
picting Margaret as a faithless wife to a husband, noted for his 
gentle virtues, who idolized her — a ferocious, unrelenting enemy, a 
woman of petty spites and coarse cruelty. 

This Margaret has all the ambition of Lady Macbeth ; but, un- 
like hers, it is essentially vulgar in quality : she prefers to gain her 
ends by trivial, transparent subtleties, such as the dashing bold- 
ness of the thane's wife would have grandly disdained. She has 
the true Frenchwoman's love of political intrigue, without her pro- 
verbial tact ; whatever she may achieve by her scheming, she as 
surely spoils by her maladroit rashness. The only situations in which 
we are permitted to regard Margaret with even tolerable kindness 
are these two: where she parts with her lover, Suffolk, who is ban- 
ished by Henry after the murder of the " good duke Humphrey : " 

Q. Mar. Enough, sweet Suffolk : thou torment'st thyself; 
And those dread curses — like the sun 'gainst glass, 
Or like an overcharged gun — recoil, 



MARGARET OF AN J OU. 259 

And turn the force of them upon thyself. 

Suf. You bade me ban, and will you bid me leave ? 
Now, by the ground that I am banish'd from, 
Well could I curse away a winter's night, 
Though standing naked on a mountain top, 
Where biting cold would never let grass grow, 
And think it but a minute spent in sport ! 

Q. Mar. 0, let me entreat thee, cease! Give me thy hand, 
That I may dew it with my mournful tears ; 
Nor let the rain of heaven wet this place, 
To wash away my woeful monuments. 
O could this kiss be printed in thy hand — ■ 
That thou might'st think upon these by the seal, 
Through whom a thousand sighs are breathed for thee ! 



I will repeal thee — or, be well assured, 

Adventure to be banished myself; 

And banished I am, if but from thee. 

Go ! speak not to me ; even now begone. — 

O, go not yet ! — Even thus two friends condemn'd 

Embrace, and kiss, and take ten thousand leaves, 

Loather a hundred times to part than die. 

Yet now farewell ; and farewell life with thee ! 

Suf. Thus is poor Suffolk ten times banished : 
Once by the king, and three times thrice by thee. 
'Tis not the land I care for, wert thou hence — 
A wilderness is populous enough, 
So Suffolk had thy heavenly company ; 
For where thou art, there is the world itself; 
With every several pleasure in the world ; 
Aid where thou art not, desolation. 
I can no more : — Live thou to joy thy life — 
Myself no joy in nought, but that thou liv'st. 



Q. Mar. Away ! Though parting be a fretful corrosivi 
It is applied to a deathful wound. 
To France, sweet Suffolk : Let me hear from thee ; 
For wheresoe'er thou art in this world's globe, 
Til have an Iris that shall find thee out. 



2G0 MARGARET OF ANJOU. 

— and where she upbraids her husband for having ignobly ceded 
his son's right of succession for the assurance of a peaceful reign 
to himself: 

Ah, wretched man ! 'would I had died a maid, 
And never seen thee, never borne thee son, 
Seeing thou hast proved so unnatural a father ! 
Hath he deserved to lose his birthright thus ? 
Had'st thou but loved him half so well as I — 
Or felt that pain which I did for him once — 
Or nourish'd him, as I did with my blood — 
Thou wouldst have left thy dearest heart-blood there, 
Rather than made that savage duke thine heir, 
And disinherited thine only son. 

K. Hen. Pardon me, Margaret ; — pardon me, sweet son ; — 
The earl of Warwick, and the duke, enforced me. 

Q. Mar. Enforced thee ! Art thou king, and wilt be forc'd ? 
I shame to hear thee speak. Ah, timorous wretch ! 
Thou bast undone thyself, thy son, and me ; 
And given unto the house of York such head 
As thou shalt reign but by their sufferance. 
To entail him and his heirs unto the crown, 
What is it but to make thy sepulchre, 
And creep into it far before thy time ? 
****** * 
Had I been there, which am a silly woman, 
The soldiers should have toss'd me on their pikes, 
Before I would have granted to that act. 
But thou preferr'st thy life before thine honor ; 
And, seeing thou dost, I here divorce myself, 
Both from thy table, Henry, and thy bed, 
Until that act of parliament be repealed, 
Whereby my son is disinherited. 

Here her indignation is most just, its lofty spirit equally he- 
coming to the mother and the queen. 

Henry lives to see her words made good : the Duke of York is 
to all intents and purposes king, under the title of lord-protector ; 



* 



MAKGAKET OF ANJOU. 261 

while his final overthrow by Margaret, whose vigilance and energy 
in her husband's forlorn cause are untiring, displays with fine dra- 
matic effect all the inhuman attributes of her character. The 
gibing malignity of her address to him, after he has been taken 
prisoner, is worthy of this " she-wolf of France," and inseparable 
from her characteristic spitefulness : 



What ! was it you that would be England's king ? 

"Was »t you that revel'd iu our parliament, 

And made a preachment of your high descent V 

Where are your mess of sons to back you now — 

The wanton Edward, and the lusty George ? 

And where's that valiant crook-back prodigy, 

Dicky your boy, that with his grumbling voice, 

Was wont to cheer his dad in mutinies ? 

Or, with the rest, where is your darling Rutland ? 

Look, York ! I stain'd this napkin with the blood 

That valiant Clifford, with his rapier's point, 

Made issue from the bosom of the boy ; 

And, if thine eyes can water for his death, 

I give thee this to dry thy cheeks withal. 

Alas, poor York ! but that I hate thee deadly. 

I should lament thy miserable state. 

I pr'ythee grieve, to make me merry, York ; 

Stamp, rave, and fret, that I may sing and dance. 

What ! hath thy fiery heart so parch'd thine entrails, 

That not a tear can fall for Rutland's death '? 

Why art thou patient, man? thou should'st be mad ; 

And I, to make thee mad, do mock thee thus. 

Thou would'st lie fee'd, I see, to make me sport ; 

York cannot speak, unless he wear a crown. — 

A crown for York ; — and, lords, bow low to him. — 

Hold you his hands, whilst I do set it on.— 

[Putting a papt r crown on his head. 
Ay, marry, sir, now looks he like a king ! 
Ay, this is he that took King Henry's chair ; 
And this is he was his adopted heir. — 



262 MARGARET OP ANJOU. 

But how is it that great Plantagenet 

Is crown'd so soon, and broke his solemn oath ? 

As I bethink me, yon should not be king, 

Till our King Henry had shook hands with death. 

After that murder of an innocent child, to avenge herself on 
the father, we can scarcely sympathize with her clamorous grief 
when her own son is pitilessly hacked to death at her feet ; her 
denunciation of his " butchers " is no better than mockery, from 
the lips of a woman guilty of the same crime, committed in the 
wantonest spirit of malignity : 

Q. Mar. O Ned, sweet Ned ! speak to thy mother, boy ! 
Canst thou not speak ? O traitors ! murderers ! — 
They that stabb'd Ctesar shed no blood at all, 
Did not offend, nor were not worthy blame, 
If this fovd deed were by, to equal it : 
He was a man — this, in respect, a child ; 
And men ne'er spend their fury on a child. 
What's worse than murderer, that I may name it ? 
No, no ; my heart will burst, an if I speak ; — 
And I will speak, that so my heart may burst : — 
Butchers and villains, bloody cannibals ! 
How sweet a plant have you untimely cropp'd ! 
You have no children, butchers! if you had, 
The thought of them would have stir'd up remorse ; 
But if you ever chance to have a child, 
Look in his youth to have him so cut off, 
As, deathsmen, you have rid this sweet young prince ! 

We have the apparition of Queen Margaret in the play of 
King Micliard III. also, where she presents the melancholy spec- 
tacle of defeated hopes, and a desolate old age spent in bitter im- 
precations, which seem to recoil with tenfold power upon her own 
tieacl. Here she " stalks around the seat of her former greatness, 
like a terrible phantom of departed majesty," or like a " grim 
prophetess of evil," " filliug the world with words " whose inten- 



MARGARET OF AN J OU. 263 

sity of cursing seems, as she says, to "ease the heart." And it 
would appear that her curses were true inspirations, not simply 
vindictive volubility, for she survives to see them fulfilled with 
appalling exactness : 

Q. Eliz. 0, thou didst prophesy the time would come 
That I should wish for thee to help me curse 
That bottled spider, that foul hunch-back'd toad. 

Q. Mar. I call'd thee, then, vain flourish of my fortune; 
I call'd thee, then, poor shadow, painted queen— 
The presentation of but what I was, 
The flattering index of a direful pageant — 
One heaved a-high, to be hurl'd down below : 
A mother only mock'd with two fair babes ; 
A dream of what thou wast ; a garish flag, 
To be the aim of every dangerous shot ; 
A sign of dignity, a breath, a bubble ; 
A queen in jest, only to fill the scene. 
Where is thy husband now ? where be thy brothers ? 
Where be thy two sons? wherein dost thou joy ? 
Who sues, and kneels, and says, — God save the queen ? 
Where be the bending peers that flatter'd thee ? 
Where be the thronging troops that follow'd thee ? 
Decline all this, and see what now thou art : 
For happy wife, a most distressed widow ; 
For joyful mother, one that wails the name ; 
For one being sued to, one that humbly sues ; 
For queen, a very caitiff crown'd with care. 

The scene where, after the murder of the young princes in the 
Tower, the three women— Margaret, Queen Elizabeth, and the old 
Duchess of York — sworn foes till then, meet at the foot of the 
scaffold of their appalling wrongs and sorrows, is wrought with 
terrible effect : 

Q. Mar. If ancient sorrow be most reverent, 
Give mine the benefit of seniory, 
And let my griefs frown on the upper hand. 



264 MARGARET OF A NJOU. 

If sorrow can admit society, [Sitting down with them. 
Tell o'er your woes again by viewing mine : 
I had an Edward, till a Richard kill'd him ; 
I had a husband, till a Richard kill'd him : 
Thou hadst an Edward, till a Richard kill'd him ; 
Thou hadst a Richard, till a Richard kill'd him. 

Duch. I had a Richard too, and thou didst kill him ; 
I had a Rutland too — thou holp'st to kill him. 

Q. Mar. Thou hadst a Clarence too, and Richard kill'd him. 
From forth the kennel of thy womb hath crept 
A hell-hound, that doth hunt us all to death — 
That dog, that had his teeth before his eyes, 
To worry lambs, and lap their gentle blood — 
That foul defacer of God's handy-work — 
That excellent grand tyrant of the earth, 
That reigns in galled eyes of weeping souls! 

:;; * * * =:< * * * 

Duch. O, Harry's wife, triumph not in my woes ; 
God witness with me, I have wej>t for thine. 

Q. 3Iar. Bear with me ; I am hungry for revenge, 
And now I cloy me with beholding it. 
Thy Edward he is dead, that kill'd ray Edward ; 
Thy other Edward dead, to quit my Edward ; 
Young York he is but boot, because both they 
Match not the high perfection of my loss. 
Thy Clarence he is dead, that stabb'd my Edward , 
And the beholders of this tragic play, 
The adulterate Hastings, Rivers, Yaughan, Grey, 
Untimely smother'd in their dusky graves. 
Richard yet lives, hell's black intelligencer — 
Only reserv'd their factor, to buy souls, 
And send them thither. But at hand, at hand, 
Ensues his piteous and unpitied end : 
Earth gapes, hell burns, fiends roar, saints pray, 
To have him suddenly eonveyM from hence ; — 
Cancel his bond of life, dear God, I pray, 
That I may live to say the dog is dead ! 



JOA¥ OF ARC. 

It is a cruel trial for one's cherished romance to be compelled 
to turn from the spotless enthusiast, the gentle martyr of history, 
who has made this name famous, to the poor counterfeit and im- 
postor who appears as the heroine of the first part of King 
Henry VI. The "La Pucelle" of Shakspeare is painted with the 
bitterest English prejudice, as half witch, half charlatan — a coarse, 
fighting, blood-thirsty Amazon, who, when made prisoner, con- 
descends to an ignominious subterfuge to escape the death-sen- 
tence. 

She is introduced to the prince-dauphin, during the desperate 
straits of the siege of Orleans, by the Bastard of Orleans, who 
addresses his royal master in these words : 

Methmks your looks are sad, your cheer appall'd ; 
Hath the late overthrow wrought this offence ? 
Be not dismay'd, for succor is at hand : 
A holy maid hither with me I bring, 
Which, by a vision sent to her from heaven, 
Ordained is to raise this tedious siege, 
And drive the English forth the bounds of France. 
The spirit of deep prophecy she hath, 
Exceeding the nine sibyls of old Rome ; 
What's past, and what's to come, she can descry. 
34 



266 JOAN OF ARC. 

And to Charles, himself, she thus relates her story, and declares 
the mission she is charged with : 

Dauphin, I am by birth a shepherd's daughter — 
My wit mitrain'd in any kind of art. 
Heaven, and our Lady gracious, hath it pleas'd 
To shine on my contemptible estate : 
Lo, whilst I waited on my tender lambs, 
And to sun's parching heat display'd my cheeks, 
God's mother deigned to appear to me, 
And, in a vision full of majesty, 
Will'd me to leave my base vocation, 
And free my country from calamity ; 
Her aid she promis'd, and assur'd success ; 
In complete glory she reveal'd herself; 
And, whereas I was black and swart before, 
With those clear rays which she infus'd on me 
That beauty am I bless'd with which you see. 
Ask me what question thou canst possible, 
And I will answer unpremeditated ; 
My courage try by combat, if thou dar'st, 
And thou shalt find that I exceed my sex. 
Resolve on this : Thou shalt be fortunate, 
If thou receive me for thy warlike mate. 

La Pucelle is as good as her word ; she forces an entrance to 
the town of Orleans, in the very teeth of the redoubtable John 
Talbot, " the scourge of France ; " and at once the shepherd's 
daughter is deified by her grateful sovereign and her enthusiastic 
countrymen : 

Puc. Advance our waving colors on the walls ; 
Rescu'd is Orleans from the English wolves : — 
Thus Joan la Pucelle hath perform'd her word. 

Char. Divinest creature, bright Astrsea's daughter, 
How shall I honor thee for this success ? 
Thy promises are like Adonis' gardens, 
That one day bloom'd, and fruitful were the nest. — 



JOAN OF ARC. 267 

France, triumph in thy glorious prophetess ! — 

Recover'd is the town of Orleans ; 

More blessed hap did ne'er befall our state. 

JReig. Why ring not out the bells throughout the town ? 
Dauphin, command the citizens make bonfires, 
And feast and banquet in the open streets, 
To celebrate the joy that God hath given us. 
* * * * * * * * 

Char. 'Tis Joan, not we, by whom the day is won ; 
For which I will divide my crown with her, 
And all the priests and friars in my realm 
Shall, in procession, sing her endless praise. 
A statelier pyramis to her I'll rear 
Than Rhodope's, or Memphis', ever was ; 
In memory of her, when she is dead, 
Her ashes, in an urn more precious 
Than the rich jewell'd coffer of Darius, 
Transported shall be at high festivals 
Before the kings and queens of France. 
No longer on Saint Denis will we cry, 
But Joan la Pucelle shall be France's saint. 

One passage from the lips of our Joan of Arc is worthy of hei 
great namesake — her exhortation to the Duke of Burgundy, whc 
has joined the English forces against France : 

Look on thy country, look on fertile France, 
And see the cities and the towns defac'd 
By wasting ruin of the cruel foe ! 
As looks the mother on her lowly babe, 
When death doth close his tender dying eyes, 
See, see, the pining malady of France ; 
Behold the wounds, the most unnatural wounds, 
Which thou thyself hast given her woful breast ! 
O, turn thy edged sword another way — 
Strike those that hurt, and hurt not those thai help! 
One drop of blood, drawn from thy country's bosom, 
Should grieve thee more than streams of foreign gore ; 
Return thee, therefore, with a flood of tears, 
And wash away thy coimtry's stained spots ! 



268 JOAN OF ARC. 

Iitir. Either she hath bewitch'd me with her words, 
Or nature makes me suddenly relent. 

In the Fifth Act we are treated to an episode of genuine witch- 
craft, over which the "holy maid" presides; by the desertion of 
her " famihars " we are prepared for her speedy downfall : 

Puc. Now help, ye charming spells, and periapts ; 
And ye choice spirits that admonish me, 
And give me signs of future accidents ! [Thunder. 

You speedy helpers, that are substitutes 
ruder the lordly monarch of the north, 
Appear, and aid me in this enterprise ! 

Enter Fiends. 
This speedy quick appearance argues proof 
Of your accustom'd diligence to me. 
Now, ye familiar spirits, that are cull'd 
Out of the powerful regions under earth, 
Help me this once, that France may get the field. 

[They walk about, and speak not. 
O, hold me not with silence over-long ! 
Where I was wont to feed you with my blood, 
I'll lop a member off, and give it you, 
In earnest of a further benefit ; 
So you do condescend to help me now. — 

[They hang their heads. 
No hope to have redress ? — My body shall 
Pay recompense, if you will grant my suit. 

[They shake their head*. 
Cannot my body, nor blood-sacrifice, 
Entreat you to your wonted furtherance ? 
Then take my soul — my body, soul, and all — 
Before that England give the French the foil. 

[ They depart. 
See ! they forsake me. Now the time is come, 
That France must vail her lofty-plumed crest, 
And let her head fall into England's lap. 
My ancient incantations are too weak. 



JOAN OF ARC. 269 

In the next martial encounter, therefore, we are not surprised 
to find her captured by the Duke of York, and at once condemned 
to die : 

York. Take her away ; for she hath liv'd too long, 
To fill the world with vicious qualities. 

Pile. First, let me tell you whom you have condenm'd : 
Not me begotten of a shepherd swain, 
But iasvffdfrom the progeny of king* • 
Virtuous, and holy ; chosen from ahove, 
By inspiration of celestial grace, 
To work exceeding miracles on earth. 
I never had to do with wicked sjiirits ; 
But you, — that are polluted with your lusts, 
Stain'd with the guiltless blood of innocents, 
Corrupt and tainted with a thousand vices, — 
Because you want the grace that others have, 
You judge it straight a thing impossible 
To compass wonders, but by help of devils. 
No, misconceiv'd ! Joan of Arc hath been 
A virgin from her tender infancy, 
Chaste and immaculate in very thought — 
Whose maiden blood, thus rigorously effus'd, 
Will cry for vengeance at the gates of heaven. 

York. Ay, ay ; away with her to execution. 

War. And hark ye, sirs ; because she is a maid, 
Spare for no fagots — let there be enough ; 
Place barrels of pitch upon the fatal stake, 
That so her torture may be shortened. 
********* 

Puc. Will nothing turn your unrelenting hearts ? — 
Then, Joan, discover thine infirmity, 
That warranteth by law to be thy privilege : — 
I am with child, ye bloody homicides : 
Murder not then the fruit within my womb, 
Although ye hale me to a violent death. 



LADY GREY. 

Lady Elizabeth Grey, widow of Sir John Grey, and wife of 
Edward IV. of England, shares with Queen Margaret the sorrows 
of one tragedy, and, by her sufferings at the hands of the mon- 
ster Duke of Gloster, constitutes a feature of melancholy interest 
in another. 

She first appears as the widow Grey, pleading to King Edward 
for the restitution of certain lands which " were seized on by the 
conqueror," when her husband was slain at the battle of Saint 
Albans. In this interview the lady conducts herself with so much 
grace and discretion, that, notwithstanding the Earl of Warwick 
is negotiating for his sovereign at the French court, for the hand of 
the Lady Bona, sister of Louis XL, Edward falls in love with her, 
and makes the granting of her suit dependent on her acceptance 
of himself for a husband : 

K. EJir. Widow, we will consider of your suit ; 
And come some other time to know our mind. 

L. Grey. Right gracious lord, I cannot brook delay ; 
May it please your highness to resolve me now ; 
And what your pleasure is shall satisfy me. 
* * * * * * * * 

K. Echo. An easy task ; 'tis but to love a king. 



272 LADY GREY. 

L. Grey. That's soon perforni'd, because I am a subject. 
********* 

K. Edw. Ay, but I fear me, in another sense. 
What love, think'st thou, I sue so much to get ? 

L. Grey. My love till death, my humble thanks, my prayers : 
That love which virtue begs and virtue grants. 

K. Edit). No, by my troth, I did not mean such love. 

L. Grey. My mind will never grant what I perceive 
Your highness aims at, if I aim aright. 
********** 

K. Echo, "Why, then thou shalt not have thy husband's lands. 

L. Grey. Why, then mine honesty shall be my dower ; 
For by that loss I will not purchase them. 

K. Edw. Therein thou wrong'st thy children mightily. 

L. Grey. Herein your highness wrongs both them and me. 
But, mighty lord, this merry inclination 
Accords not with the sadness of my suit ; 
Please you dismiss me either with ay or no. 

K. Edw. Ay ; if thou wilt say ay to my request : 
No ; if thou dost say no to my demand. 

L. Grey. Then no, my lord. My suit is at an end. 

K. Edw. [Aside.] Her looks do argue her replete with 
modesty ; 
Her words do show her wit incomparable. 
All her perfections challenge sovereignty : 
One way or other she is for a king ; 
And she shall be my love, or else my queen. — 
Say that King Edward take thee for his queen ? 

L. Grey. 'Tis better said than done, my gracious lord : 
I am a subject fit to jest withal, 
But far unfit to be a sovereign. 

E. Edw. Sweet widow, by my state I swear to thee, 
I speak no more than what my soul intends ; 

Answer no more, for thou shalt be my queen. 

And so the poor lady — a retiring, teuder-liearted gentlewoman, 
fitted only for the secluded yet not undignified estate to which for- 
tune had called her — becomes Edward's crowned queen, a very 



LADY GREY. 273 

lamb tossed to the ravening wolves of that reign of terror. Where 
Margaret, of iron nerves, dauntless will, and almost equal ferocity ; 
has been trodden under foot, what better fate can be hoped for 
this gentle mother and modest housewife, who has ignorantly dared 
to assume a position so perilous ? 

"Small joy," indeed, has she "in being England's queen" — 
" baited, scorn'd, and storm'd at," by her fierce brothers-in-law dur- 
ing her husband's life, and after his death their unspared victim. 
Not only does Richard usurp the throne, of which he is lord-pro- 
tector duiing the minority of his nephew, but the royal youngling 
and his brother are, by his order, murdered in the Tower. 

The wretched mother's farewell exhortation to the prison 
which contains her infant sons, from whom she is debarred, has 
been justly pronounced one of the most beautiful passages in the 
play: 

Q. Eliz. Stay yet ; look back, with me, unto the Tower. — 
Pity, you ancient stones, those tender babes, 
Whom envy hath immured within your walls ! 
Hough cradle for such little pretty ones ! 
Rude ragged nurse ! old sullen play-fellow 
For tender princes, use my babies well ! 
So foolish sorrow bids your stones farewell. 

Were the wooer any other than the areh-fiend Richard himself, 
we should protest against the possibility that even so weak a wo- 
man, as this queen in spite of herself, could consent to wed her 
daughter to the crook-backed villain ; but there is no resisting his 
wily tongue — she falls into the snare with dreadful compliance ; 
Heaven alone saved the helpless young girl from so fatal a con- 
summation : 

K. Rich. Be not so hasty to confound my meaning ; 
I mean that with my soul I love thy daughter, 
35 



2V4 LADY GREY. 

And do intend to make her queen of England. 



The king that calls your beauteous daughter wife, 

Familiarly shall call thy Dorset brother ; 

Again shall you be mother to a king, 

And all the ruins of distressful times 

Repah-'d with double riches of content. 

What ! we have many goodly days to see ; 

The liquid drops of tears that you have shed 

Shall come again, transform'd to orient pearl, 

Advantaging their loan with interest 

Of ten times double gain of happiness. 

Go, then, my mother — to thy daughter go ; 

Make bold her bashful years with your experience ; 

Prepare her ears to hear a wooer's tale ; 

Put in her tender heart the aspiring flame 

Of golden sovereignty. ***** 

********** 

Q. Eliz. What were I best to say ? her father's brother 
Would be her lord ? Or shall I say her uncle ? 
Or he that slew her brothers, and her uncles ? 
Under what title shall I woo for thee, 
That God, the law, my honor, and her love 
Can make seem pleasing to her tender years ? 
******** 

K. Hich. As I intend to prosper, and repent ! 
So thrive I in my dangerous attempt 
Of hostile arms ! myself myself confound ! 
Heaven, and fortune, bar me happy hours ! 
Day, yield me not thy light ; nor, night, thy rest ! 
Be opposite all planets of good luck 
To my proceeding ! if, with pure heart's love, 
Immaculate devotion, holy thoughts, 
I tender not thy beauteous princely daughter ! 
********* 
Therefore, dear mother, (I must call you so,) 
Be the attorney of my love to her. 
Plead what I will be, not what I have been ; 
Not my deserts, but what I will deserve ; 



LADY GREY. 2li 

Urge the necessity and state of times, 
And be not peevish found in great designs. 

Q. Eliz. Shall I be tempted of the devil thus ? 
********* 
Shall I go win my daughter to thy will ? 

K. Rich. And be a happy mother by the deed. 

Q. Elk. I go. — Write to me very shortly, 
And you shall understand from me her mind. 

K. Rich. Bear her my true love's kiss, and so farewell. 
{Kissing her. Exit Q. Elizabeth. 
Relenting fool, and shallow, changing — woman ! 



LADY ANNE. 

Tins lady, the eldest daughter of that renowned " setter up and 
plucker down of kings," the Earl of Warwick, was twice married — 
first to Edward, Prince of Wales, son of Henry VI., by Margaret 
of Anjou ; and afterward to Richard, Duke of Gloster. 

The scene in King Richard III., where, even in the act of fol- 
lowing the corse of her father-in-law to the grave, she is wooed and 
won by his murderer, who had also " cropp'd the golden prime of 
the sweet prince," her husband, leaves nothing to be desired as an 
exemplification of her character. That demonstrates her a woman, 
doubtless of good intentions and a sufficiently kind heart, but 
lamentably deficient in intellect and the plainest common sense — 
without any fixed principles or opinions, or the simply natural im- 
pulses of a saving pride. We grant the irresistible fascination, that 
would exist for such a woman as Anne, in the towering superiority, 
the flashing audacity of Richard — and he purposely makes a dis- 
play of it by threatening the gentlemen who bear the body ; but 
nothing is truer of her than that " in a less critical moment a far 
less subtle and audacious seducer would have sufficed." 

She is an eminent example of weakness, the effects of which are 
scarcely less deplorable than those of deliberate criminality; nor do 



278 LADY ANNE. 

they differ from those materially. In her community of good and 
had fellow-creatures she exists a negative abstraction, equally ready 
to be good or bad, as any one, for selfish purposes, may take the 
pains to influence her. 

With Anne, Richard appeals to her personal vanity, her pro- 
pensity to inspire passion, as, subsequently with Elizabeth, he 
tempts maternal ambition ; but in both cases it is himself — his 
wily words, and, above all, his own implicit faith in the infallibility 
of his arguments — that constitutes the most dangerous snare : 



Anne. What ! do you tremble ? are you all afraid ? 
Alas ! I blame you not ; for you are mortal, 
Aud mortal eyes cannot endure the devil. — 
Avaunt, thou dreadful minister of hell ! 
Thou hadst but power over his mortal body — 
His soul thou canst not have ; therefore, begone ! 

Glo. Sweet saint, for charity, be not so curst. 

Anne. Foul devil ! for God's sake, hence, aud trouble us not ; 
For thou hast made the happy earth thy hell, 
Fill'd it with cursing cries, and deep exclaims. 
If thou delight to view thy heinous deeds, 
Behold this pattern of thy butcheries : 
* * * * * * * * 

Glo. Lady, you know no rules of charity, 
Which renders good for bad, blessings for curses. 

Anne. Villain, thou know'st no law of God nor man ; 
No beast so fierce but knows some touch of pity. 

Glo. But I know none, and therefore am no beast. 

Anne. O wonderful, when devils tell the truth ! 

Glo. More wonderful, when angels are so angry. — 
Vouchsafe, divine perfection of a woman, 
Of these supposed evils to give me leave, 
By circumstance, but to acquit myself. 



Your beauty was the cause of that effect ; 
Your beauty, which did haunt me in my sleep 



LADY ANNE. 



To undertake the death of all the world, 

So I might live one hour in your sweet bosom. 



I never su'd to friend nor enemy : 

My tongue could never learn sweet soothing word ; 

But now thy beauty is propos'd my fee, 

My proud heart sues, and prompts my tongue to speak. 

[She looks scornfully on him. 
Teach not thy lip such scorn ; for it was made 
For kissing, lady, not for such contempt. 
If thy revengeful heart cannot forgive, 
Lo ! here I lend thee this sharp-pointed sword ! 
Which if thou please to hide in this true breast, 
And let the soul forth that adoreth thee, 
I lay it naked to the deadly stroke, 
And humbly beg the death upon my knee. 

\IIe lays his breast open ; she offers at it with 
his sword. 
Nay, do not pause ; for I did kill King Henry ; — 
But 'twas thy beauty that provoked me. 
Nay, now despatch ; 'twas I that stabb'd young Edward : — 
[She again offers at his breast. 
But 'twas thy heavenly face that set me on. 

[She lets fall the sword. 
Take up the sword again, or take up me. 

Anne. Arise, dissembler : though I wish thy death, 
I will not be thy executioner. 



I would I knew thy heart. 

Glo. 'Tis figur'd in 

My tongue. 

. Inne. I fear me both are false. 

Glo. Then man 

Was never true. 

.t/uii . Well, well, put up your sword. 

Glo. Say, then, my peace is made. 

. 1 nnt . That shall you know 

Hereafter. 

Glo. But shall I live in hope ? 



2S0 LADY ANNE. 

Anne. All men, 

I hope, live so. 

Glo. Vouchsafe to wear this ring. 

Anne. To take is not to give. [She puts on the ring. 

Glo. Look, how this ring encompasseth thy finger, 
Even so thy breast encloseth my poor heart ; 
"Wear both of them, for both of them are thine. 
And if thy poor devoted servant may 
But beg one favor at thy gracious hand, 
Thou dost confirm his happiness forever. 
********** 

Anne. With all my heart ; and much it joys me, too, 
To see you are become so penitent. — 
Tressel and Berkley, go along with me. 

With all our appreciation of the gentleness of this "gentle 
Lady Anne," "ay, too gentle," we cannot forbear ejaculating with 
Richard, himself: 

Was ever woman in this humor woo'd ? 

Was ever woman in this humor won ? 

I'll have her, — but I will not keep her long. 

"What ! I, that kill'd her husband, and his father, 

To take her in her heart's extremest hate — 

With curses in her mouth, tears in her eyes, 

The bleeding witness of her hatred by — 

With God, her conscience, and these bars against me, 

And I no friends to back my suit withal, 

But the plain devil, and dissembling looks, 

And yet to win her ? — all the world to nothing ! 

When we next meet her, she is summoned to her coronation ; 
and it is a touching picture that she gives us of the grievous pen- 
ance she has undergone for that blundering hour of flattered 
vanity : 

Stan. * * * * * * * 
Come, madam, you must straight to Westminster, 



LADY ANNE. 281 

There to be crowned Richard's royal queen. 



Anne. And I with all unwillingness will go. — 
O, would to God that the inclusive verge 
Of golden metal, that must round my brow, 
Were red-hot steel, to sear me to the brain ! 
Anointed let me be with deadly venom — 
And die, ere men can say God Save the Queen ! 



When he, that is my husband now, 

Came to me, as I followed Henry's corse — 

When scarce the blood was well wash'd from his hands, 

Which issu'd from my other angel husband, 

And that dead saint which then I weeping follow'd — 

O, when, I say, I look'd on Richard's face, 

This was my wish, — Be thou, quoth I, accurs'd, 

For making me, so young/, so old a widow/ 

And, when thou icecPst, let sorrow haunt thy bed ; 

And be thy wife {if any be so mad) 

Mure mho-able by the. life of thee 

Than thou hast made me by my dear lord's death '. 

Lo, ere I can repeat this curse again, 

Even in so short a space, my woman's heart 

Grossly grew captive to his honey words, 

And prov'd the subject of mine own soul's curse, 

Which ever since hath held mine eyes from rest ; 

For never yet one hour in his bed 

Did-I enjoy the golden dew of sleep, 

But with his timorous dreams was still awak'd. 

Besides, he hates me for my father Warwick ; 

And will, no doubt, shortly be rid of me. 



And when, at last, poor Anne " has bid the world good-night," 
and Gloster is already promised another bride, her ghost appears 
to her guilty husband — to swell the horrors of bis sleep before the 
battle in which he is doomed to fall, and like the rest of his super- 



282 LADY ANNE. 

natural visitants, victims of his cruelty, to pronounce a malt 
diction : 

The Ghost of Queen Anne rises. 
Ghost. Richard, thy wife, that wretched Anne thy wife, 
That never slept a qniet hour with thee, 
Now fills thy sleep with perturbations ; 
To-morrow in the battle think on me, 
And fall thy edgeless sword. Despair, and die ! 



fc 



LADY PERCY 



Lady Kathakine Percy, wife of young Harry -Percy — sur- 
named Hotspur, for the fiery recklessness of his character — can 
scarcely be denominated the heroine of King Henry IV, because, 
properly speaking, that play is constructed without one ; but as 
she is the only female character in the serious part of the dramatic 
action, she may claim that honor without challenging invidious 
comparison. 

K'uuj Henry IV, in its two parts, treats, on the one hand, of 
the revolts of discontented nobles against the king — being, so far, 
of the "drum and trumpet" type; and on the other, gives us tin- 
adventures of the mad-cap heir apparent, Prince Henry, in com- 
pany with his boon companion, Sir John Falstaff. 

The part of Lady Percy is a mere miniature sketch, noticeable 
only for its fidelity to every-day human nature, and contained in 
two or three short scenes in the domestic life of the spoilt-child 
wife of a hot-headed young warrior, who, his soul all alive with 
the blaze and din of battle-fields, is accustomed to pet her with 
good-natured contempt. 

She is young, fond and proud of her gallant Hotspur, innocent 
and engaging ; but she has no peculiar traits, mental or moral. 



284 LADY PERCY. 

The nature of the conjugal relation between a pah- so opposed, 
is best exemplified by the scene where Percy takes leave of his 
wife, before going to the wars : 

Sot. ******* * 

How now, Kate ? I must leave you within these two hours. 

Lady P. O, my good lord, why are you thus alone ? 
For what offence have I, this fortnight, been 
A banish'd woman from my Harry's bed ? 
Tell me, sweet lord, what is't that takes from thee 
Thy stomach, pleasure, and thy golden sleep ? 
Why dost thou bend thine eyes upon the earth, 
And start so often when thou sitt'st alone ? 
Why hast thou lost the fresh blood in thy cheeks, 
And given my treasures, and my rights of thee, 
To thick-ey'd musing, and curs'd melancholy ? 
In thy faint slumbers I by thee have watch'd, 
And heard thee murmur tales of iron wars, 
Speak terms of manage to thy bounding steed, 
Cry, Courage! — to the field! * * * * 
***** O, what portents are these ? 
Some heavy business hath my lord in hand, 
And I must know it, else he loves me not — 

What is it carries you away ? 

Hot. My horse, 

My love, my horse. * * * * 
Away, away, you trifler ! Love ? I love thee not — 
I care not for thee, Kate. * * * 
***** Gods me, my horse ! 
What say'st thou, Kate ? what would'st thou have with me ? 

Lady P. Do you not love me ? do you not, indeed ? 
***** Do you not love me ? 
Nay, tell me, if you speak in jest or no. 

Hot. Come, wilt thou see me ride ? 
And when I am o' horseback I will swear 
I love thee infinitely. But hark you, Kate — 
I must not have you henceforth question me 
Whither I go, nor reason whereabout : 
Whither I must, I must ; and, to conclude, 



LADY PERCY. 285 

This evening must I leave you, gentle Kate. 

I know you wise — but yet no further wise 

Than Harry Percy's wife ; constant you are — 

But yet a woman ; and for secresy, 

No lady closer — for I well believe 

Thou wilt not utter what thou dost not know ; 

And so far will I trust thee, gentle Kate ! 

At the battle of Shrewsbury, the gallant Hotspur falls, mortally 
wounded by Prince Henry ; and in the Second Part of King 
Henry IV., we find, in dismal contrast to the playful, pouting, self- 
willed young wife, the subdued, grief-stricken widow. In her ap- 
peal to her Harry's father to " go not to these wars," she pro- 
nounces a beautiful eulogium on her dead soldier, replete with elo- 
quent pathos : 

O, yet, for God's sake, go not to these wars ! 
The time was, father, that you broke your word 
When you were more endear'd to it than now — • 
When your own Percy, when my heart's dear Harry, 
Threw many a northward look, to see his father 
Bring up his powers ; but he did long in vain. 
Who then persuaded you to stay at home ? 
There were two honors lost — yours and your son's. 
For yours — may heavenly glory brighten it ! 
For his, it stuck upon him, as the sun 
In the gray vault of heaven ; and by his light- 
Did all the chivalry of England move 
To do brave acts ;***** 

* * * * So that, in speech, in gait, 
In diet, in affections of delight, 

In military rules, humors of blood, 

He was the mark and glass, copy and book, 

That fashion'd others. * * * * 

* * * * — let them alone : 
The marshal and the archbishop are strong; 
Had my sweet Harry had but half their numbers, 
To-day might I, hanging on Hotspur's neck, 
Have talk'd of Monmouth's grave. 



THE PRINCESS KATHARINE. 

The play of King Henry V., which concludes with the mar- 
riage of the daughter of Charles VI. to the English monarch, 
Henry, commemorates the latter's extensive conquests in France, 
and though chiefly occupied with martial exploits, is not altogether 
devoid of the comic element. This is especially noticeable in 
Henry's broken-French wooing of the Princess Katharine, who is 
equally ignorant of English. 

The princess, herself, is the familiar model of the Men 'deve 
French demoiselle — shy, excessively circumspect, and very chary 
of words. She is quite overwhelmed by the tempestuous suit of 
the bluff " king of good fellows ; " but is plainly flattered by the 
prospect of being queen of England. 

Besides this scene with King Henry, she appears only once; and 
then, with admirable prescience of her coming good fortune, she 
takes a lesson in English from her lady-in-waiting. As for character 
in a demoiselle of gentle breeding, to be even suspected of having 
one "(levant se-s noces" that "is not be," in the words of the naive 
interpreter, " de fashion jpomr !e-s ladies of France," anymore than the 
granting of a kiss to a lover — a maxim of national etiquette, by the 
by, which King Hal expounds with practical cleverness : 



PRINCESS KATHARINE. 

K Hen. Fair Katharine, and most fair ! 
Will you vouchsafe to teach a soldier terms, 
Such as will enter at a lady's ear, 
And plead his love-suit to her gentle heart ? 

Kath. Your majesty shall mock at me ; I cannot speak 
your England. 

K. Hen. O fair Katharine, if you will love me soundly 
with your French heart, I will be glad to hear you 
confess it brokenly with your English tongue. Do you 
like me, Kate ? 

Kath. Pardonnez moy, I cannot tell vat is — like me. 

K. Hen. An angel is like you, Kate ; and you are like 
an angel. 

Kath. Que ilit-il? quejemiis scmhlable a les anges ? 

Alice. Ouy, vraymmt, («mtf vostre grace,) ainsi Jit-!l. 

K. Hen. I said so, dear Katharine ; and I must not 
blush to affirm it. 

Kath. O bon Dim! les langues des homines sont 
pleines des tromperies. 

K. Hen. What says she, fair one ? that the tongues of 
men are full of deceits ? 

Alice. Ouy ; dat de tongues of de mans is be full of 
deceits : dat is de princess. 

K. Hen. Marry, if you would put me to verses, or to 
dance for your sake, Kate, why you undid me ; for I 
speak to thee plain soldier : If thou canst love me for this, 
take me; if not, to say to thee that I shall die, is true; 
but, for thy love — by the Lord, no ; yet I love thee too. 
And while thou livest, dear Kate, take a fellow of plain 
and uncoined constancy ; for he perforce must do thee 
right, because he hath not the gift to woo in other 
places ; for these fellows of infinite tongue, that can rhyme 
themselves into ladies' favors, — they do always reason 
themselves out again. If thou would have such a one, 
take me; and take me, take a soldier; take a soldier, 
take a king : And what sayest thou then to my love ? 
speak, my lair, and fairly, I pray thee. 

Kath. Is it possible dat I should love de enemy of 
France ? 

K. Hen. No ; it is not possible you should love the 



PRINCESS KATHARINE. 289 

enemy of France, Kate ; but, in loving me, you should 
love the friend of France ; for I love France so well, that 
I will not part with a village of it ; I will have it all 
mine ; and, Kate, when France is mine, and I am yours, 
then yours is France, and you are mine. 

Katli. I cannot tell vat is dat. 

K. Hen. Now fye upon my false French ! By mine 
honor, in true English, I love thee, Kate ; by which 
honor I dare not swear thou lovest me ; yet my blood 
begins to flatter me that thou dost, notwithstanding the 
poor and untempering effect of my visage. And there- 
fore tell me, most fair Katharine — will you have me ? Put 
off your maiden blushes ; avouch the thoughts of your 
heart with the looks of an empress ; take me by the 
hand, and say — Harry of England, I am thine : which 
word thou shalt no sooner bless mine ear withal, but I 
will tell thee, aloud, England is thine, Ireland is thine, 
France is thine, and Henry Plantagenet is thine — who, 
though I speak it before his face, if he be not fellow with 
the best king, thou shalt find the best king of good fel- 
lows. Come, your answer in broken music — for thy 
voice is music, and thy English broken ; therefore queen 
of all, Katharine, break thy mind to me in broken Eng- 
lish : Wilt thou have me ? 

Hath. Dat is as it shall please de roy monpere. 

H. Hen. Nay, it will please him well, Kate ; it shall 
please him, Kate. 

Hath. Den it shall also content me. 

K. Hen. Upon that I will kiss your hand, and I call 
you — my queen. 

Hath. Laissez, mon seigneur, laissez, laissez ! ma 
foiji j e ne veux point que votes abbaissez vostre grandeur, 
en baisant la main cPune vostre indigne serviteure ! ex- 
cusez moy, je vous sup2>U<\ mon ires puissant seigneur. 

H. Hen. Then I will kiss your lips, Kate. 

Hath. Les dames, et damoiselles, pour estre baisees de- 
vant leur nopces, il ri est pas le coutume de France. 

H. Hen. Madam my interpreter, what says she? 

Alice. Dat it is not be de fashion pour les ladies of 
France, — I cannot tell what is, baiser, en English. 

H. Hen. To kiss. 
37 



290 PRINCESS KATHARINE. 

Alice. Your majesty entendre bettre que moy. 

K. Men. It is uot the fashion for the maids in France 
to kiss before they are married, would she say ? 

Alice. Ouy, vrayment. 

K. Jim. O Kate, uice customs curt'sy to great kings. 
Dear Kate, you and I cannot be confined within the 
weak list of a country's fashion : we are the makers of 
manners, Kate ; and the liberty that follows our places, 
stops the mouths of all find-faults — as I will do yours, 
for upholding the nice fashion of your country, in deny- 
ing me a kiss ; therefore, patiently and yielding. [A7ss- 
ing her.] You have witchcraft in your lips, Kate; 
there is more eloquence in a sugar touch of them than 
in the tongues of the French council ; and they should 
sooner' persuade Harry of England than a general peti- 
tion of monarchs. 



PORTIA. 

This lady, daughter of Cato, and wife of Marcus Brutus, is ' 
introduced with grateful effect in the tragedy of Jvlius Ccssar, 
affording relief, by her truly feminine presence, to that painful 
record of " treason, stratagems," and foul conspiracy. 

Portia is the just impersonation of a matron " after the high Ro- 
man fashion," — carefully finished, and severely classic in its lightest 
t< >uches. Full of sensibility, tenderness, and all the timid flutter- 
ing* of her sex, she yet entertains lofty ideas of the heroic forti- 
tude, severe virtues, and unflinching nerve that become "Cato's 
daughter," and "the woman that Lord Brutus took to wife;" and 
in her unavailing self-discipline to attain those stoical perfections, 
she presents one more example of the ineffectuality of the " schools" 
to divert the natural bent of the female character. 

" For the picture of this wedded couple, at once august and 
tender," says Campbell, " human nature, and the dignity of conju- 
gal faith, are indebted ;" it is ahnost the only instance, among all of 
Sliakspeare's married people, in which, long after the honeymoon 
has departed, the wife is neither the master, slave, nor pretty toy 
of her husband : 



PORTIA. 

Bru. Portia, what mean you ? Wherefore rise you now ? 
It is not for your health, thus to commit 
Your weak condition to the raw-cold morning. 

For. Nor for yours neither. You have ungently, Brutus, 
Stole from my hed. And yesternight, at supper, 
You suddenly arose, and walked about, 
Musing, and sighing, with your arms across ; 
And when I ask'd you what the matter was, 
You star'd upon me with ungentle looks. 
I urged you further ; then you scratch'd your head, 
And too impatiently stamp'd with your foot ; 
Yet I insisted, yet you answer'd not — 
But, with an angry wafture of your hand, 
Gave sign for me to leave, you : So I did. 
* * * * * * Dear my lord, 
Make me acquainted with your cause of grief. 

Bru. I am not well in health, and that is all. 

For. Brutus is wise; and, were he not in health, 
He would embrace the means to come by it. 

Bru. Why, so I do. — Good Portia, go to bed. 

For. ******* 
***** No, my Brutus ; 

You have some sick offence within your mind, 
Which, by the right and virtue of my place, 
I ought to know of: And, upon my knees, 
I charm you, by my once commended beauty, 
By all your vows of love, and that great vow 
Which did incorporate and make us one, 
That you unfold to me, yourself, your half, 
Why you are heavy. * * * * 
******* * 

Bru. Kneel not, gentle Portia. 

Por. I should not need, if you were gentle Brutus. 
Within the bond of marriage, tell me, Brutus, 
Is it excepted I should know no secrets 
That appertain to you ? Am I yourself 
But, as it were, in sort, or limitation — 
To keep with you at meals, comfort your bed, 
And talk to you sometimes? Dwell I but in the suburbs 
Of your good pleasure ? If it be no more, 



PORTIA. 293 

Portia is Brutus' harlot, not his wife. 

Brit. You are my true and honorable wife, 

As dear to me as are the ruddy drops 

That visit my sad heart. 

Por. If this were true, then should I know this secret. 

I grant I am a woman — but, withal, 

A woman that Lord Brutus took to wife ; 

I grant I am a woman — but, withal, 

A woman well reputed — Cato's daughter. 

Think you I am no stronger than my sex, 

Being so father'd, and so husbanded ? 

Tell me your counsels — I will not disclose them : 
1 1 have made strong proof of my constancy, 
I Giving myself a voluntary wound, 

Here, in the thigh. Can I bear that with patience, 

And not my husband's secrets ? 

Bru. O ye gods, 

Bender me worthy of this noble wife !— 

Hark ! hark ! one knocks : Portia, go in awhile ; 

And by and by thy bosom shall partake 

The secrets of my heart. 

All my engagements I will construe to thee. 

The scene where Portia, aware of the plot to kill Ctesar in the 
capitol, sends her page thither to gather tidings for her agonized 
suspense, is full of spirit; the natural excitability and weak tre- 
mors of the woman are portrayed to the life, and prove the worth- 
lessness of her boasted philosophy to keep her heart down, when 
it starts up alarmed for her husband's safety : 

Por. I pr'ythee, boy, run to the senate-house ; 
Stay not to answer me, but get thee gone — 
Why dost thou stay ? 

Luc. To know my errand, madam. 

Por. I would have had thee there, and here again, 
Ere I can tell thee what thou should'st do there. — 

constancy, be strong upon my side ! 

S>'t a huge mountain 'tween my heart and tongue ! 

1 have a man's mind, but a woman's might. 



294 PORTIA. 

How hard it is for women to keep counsel ! — 

Bring we word, boy, if thy lord look well, 

For lie went sickly forth. And take good note 

What Caesar doth, what suitors press to him. 

Hark, boy ! what noise is that ? 

******** 

* * * Ah me ! how weak a thing 

The heart of woman is ! O Brutus ! 

The heavens speed thee in thine enterprise ! 

Sure, the boy heard me : — Brutus hath a suit 

That Caesar will not grant. — O, I grow faint : — 

Run, Lucius, and commend me to my lord ; 

Say I am merry. Come to me again, 

Aud bring me word what he doth say to thee. 

But alas for this gentle lady of "a man's mind, but a woman's 
might ! " these alternations of hope, fear, suspense, and heroic efforts 
at self-command, are too much for her delicate organization ; in a 
fit of wild distraction she puts an end to her life. Her husband 
thus communicates the grievous tidings to his friend Cassius : 

Bru. O Cassius, I am sick of many griefs. 

Cas. Of your philosophy you make no use, 
If you give place to accidental evils. 

Bru. No man bears sorrow better : — Portia is dead. 

Cas. Ha! Portia? 

Bru. She is dead. 

Cas. How scap'd I killing, when I cross'd you so ? 
O insupportable and touching loss !— 
Upon what sickness ? 

Bru. Impatient of my absence, 

And grief that young Octavius with Mark Antony 
Have made themselves so strong ; — for with her death 
That tidings came. With this she fell distract ; 
And, her attendants absent, swallow'd fire. 

Cas. And died so ? 

Bru. Even so. 
Cas. O ye immortal gods ! 



V I R G I L I A . 

The Virgilia of Coriolamis, "wife of the Roman hero, is a pleas- 
ing outline study of the patrician lady of that classic period. In 
her conjugal devotion, her "gracious silence," and her shrinking 
modesty — befitting a virgin, rather than the wife of the renowned 
Marcius, and the mother of his boy — she is strongly contrasted 
with her mother-in-law, Volumnia, whose grand patriotism, stately 
pride of intellect and blood, and lofty spirit, constitute her a rep- 
resentative matron of old Rome. 

In the dramatic action, as well as in her domestic relations, 
Virgilia is entirely subordinate to Volumnia ; Marcius is a tender 
husband, but his mother is the inspiration of his most famous 
achievements, and hers the only influence he acknowledges — Vir- 
gilia has neither the intellect, nor the desire, to control his haughty 
spirit. 

After the departure of Marcius for the wars against the Vol- 
cians, whence he returns distinguished with the name of Coriola- 
nus, these two ladies are discovered in a home scene, full of the 
charm of privacy and feminine ways, sitting on " low stools " at 
their " stitchery ; " they are interrupted in their conversation by 



296 VIR GI LI A. 

a call from the Lady Valeria, " the noble sister of Publicola, the 
moon of Home." 

The talk between the mother and her son's wife concerning 
their mutual idol, Marcius — the heroic love of glory in the one, 
opposed to the timid tenderness of the other — discriminates with 
much nicety their widely contrasted characters : 

Vol. I pray you, daughter, sing; or express yourself 
in a more comfortable sort. If my son were my husband, 
I should frcelier rejoice in that absence wherein he won 
honor. 
-********* When 
yet he was but tender-bodied, and the only son of my 
womb ; when youth with comeliness plucked all gaze his 
way ; when, for a day of king's entreaties, a mother 
should not sell him an hour from her beholding — I, con- 
sidering how honor would become such a person — that 
it was no better than picture-like, to hang by the wall, if 
renown made it not stir— was pleased to let him seek 
danger where he was like to find fame. To a cruel war I 
sent him ; from whence he returned, his brows bound 
with oak. I tell thee, daughter, I sprang not more in 
joy at first hearing he was a man-child, than now in first 
seeing he had proved himself a man. 

Vir. But had he died in the business, madam ? how 
then ? 

Vol. Then his good report should have been my son ; 
I therein would have found issue ; 
********* 
Methinks I hear hither your husband's drum — 
See him pluck Aufidius down by the hair — 
As children from a bear, the Voices shunning him ; 
Methinks I see him stamp thus, and call thus, — 
Come on, you cowards! you were got in fear, 
Though you were born in Home. His bloody brow 
With his mail'd hand then wiping, forth he goes — 
Like to a harvest-man, that's task'd to mow 
Or all, or lose his hire. 

Vir. His bloody brow ! O, Jupiter, no blood ! 



VIRGILIA. 297 

Vol. Away, you fool ! it more becomes a man 
Than gilt his trophy : The breasts of Hecuba, 
When she did suckle Hector, look'd not lovelier 
Than Hector's forehead when it spit forth blood 
At Grecian swords' contending. — Tell Valeria 
"We are fit to bid her welcome. 

Vir. Heavens bless my lord from fell Aufidius. 

Vol. He'll beat Aufidius' head below his knee, 
And tread upon his neck. 

And yet, to a woman, who alone can appreciate the temptation, 
Virgilia's persistent resistance of her friend's and her mother's en- 
treaties to "go forth with them," bespeaks a quiet firmness of pur- 
pose, for which, with her usual soft yielding, one would scarce 
give her credit : 

Val. How do you both ? you are manifest house-keep- 
ers. What ! are you sewing here ? A fine spot in good 
faith. 
********* 

Come lay aside your stitchery ; I must have you play 
the idle huswife with me this afternoon. 

Vir. No, good madam ; I will not out of doors. 

Val. Not out of doors ! 

Vol. She shall, she shall. 

Vir. Indeed, no, by your patience : I will not over the 
threshold, till my lord returns from the wars. 

Val. Fye ! you confine yourself most unreasonably. 
******** 

Vol. Why, I pray you? 

Vir. 'Tis not to save labor, nor that I want love. 

Val. You would be another Penelope ; yet, they say, 
all the yarn she spun, in Ulysses' absence, did but fill 
Ithaca full of moths. Come; I would your cambric 
were as sensible as your finger, that you might leave 
pricking it for pity. Come, you shall go with us. 

Vir. No, good madam — pardon me ; indeed, I will not 
forth. 



298 VIRGILIA. 

Vol. Let her alone, lady ; as she is now, she will but 
disease our better mirth. 

Vol. In troth, I think she would: — Fare you well 
then. — Come, good sweet lady. — Pry'thee, Virgilia, turn 
thy solemness out o'door, and go along with us. 

Vir. No — at a word, madam ; indeed, I must not. I 
wish you much mirth. 

Veil. Well then, farewell. 

The separate individualities of the two ladies are also clearly- 
shown in their manner of receiving the tidings of their absent 
warrior ; Voluinnia proudly rejoices in that which fills the gentle 
soul of Virgilia with unqualified horror : 

Vol. Honorable Menenius, my boy Marcius ap- 
proaches ; for the love of Juno, let's go. 

Men. * * * * * 

***** Is he not wounded ? he was 

wont to come home wounded. 

Vir. O, no, no, no ! 

Vol. O, he is wounded — I thank the gods for't ! 
********** 

Lo, on's brows, Menenius ! he comes the third time 
home with the oaken garland. 

So, too, their several receptions of him on his return from victory : 

Cor. O ! 

You have, I know, petition'd all the gods 
For my prosperity. [Kneels. 

Vol. Nay, my good soldier, up ! 

My gentle Marcius, worthy Caius, and 
By deed-achieving honor newly nam'd — 
What is it ? Coriolanus, must I call thee ? 
But O, thy wife 

Cor. My gracious silence, hail ! 

Would'st thou have laugh'd had I come coffin'd home, 
That weep'st to see me triumph ? Ah, my dear, 
Such eyes the widows in Corioli wear, 
And mothers that lack sons. 



VIRGIL I A. 299 

When Coriolanus is banished, Virgilia is overwhelmed with 
grief; it leaves her no words — only pitiful ejaculations; but Vo- 
lumnia stuns the ears of her ungrateful countrymen with her 
curses, her accusations, her withering sarcasm. 

And again, on the occasion of Volumnia's grand triumph over 
her son's headlong determination of revenge, this "most noble 
mother in the world" appeals to him in a torrent of immortal 
eloquence ; Virgilia, with no other arguments than the tears in 
"those doves' eyes, which can make gods forsworn" — her hands 
raised to heaven, she kneeling, with her boy, in the dust. 




LAV IN I A. 

Lavinia, daughter of Titus Andronicus, a Kornan general, and 
wife of Bassianus, brother to the emperor, is the heroine of that 
revolting tragedy which bears her father's name. 

" Gracious Lavinia, Kome's rich ornament," is described as the 
most dutiful of daughters, chastest of virgins, noblest of wives ; 
and for the very reason, it would seem, that she is so spotless, is 
she, like Lucrece, doomed to be the victim of one of those crimes 
of tragic horror which foully blot the pages of classic story. 

For Lavinia's history we beg leave to refer to the text ; from 
the task of describing its terrible details, a woman's pen, however 
innocently bold, naturally revolts. 

The lament of her uncle, Marcus Andronicus, over the fatal 
catastrophe of her wrongs and mutilation, affords us a few personal 
touches, suggestive of the accomplishments of this "martyr'd lady:" 

O, that delightful engine of her thoughts, 
That blabb'd them with such pleasing eloquence, 
Is torn from forth that pretty hollow cage ; 
Where, like a sweet melodious bird, it sung 
Sweet varied notes, enchanting every ear ! 



302 LAVINIA. 

Fair Philomela, she but lost her tongue, 
And in a tedious sampler sew'd her mind ; 
But, lovely niece, that mean is cut from thee?; 
A craftier Tereus hast thou met withal, 
And he hath cut those pretty fingers off, 
That could have better sew'd than Philomel. 
O, had the monster seen those lily hands 
Tremble, like aspen leaves, upon a lute, 
And make the silken strings delight to kiss them, 
He would not then have touch'd them for his life ; 
Or had he heard the heavenly harmony 
Which that sweet tongue hath made, 
He would have dropp'd his knife, and fell asleep, 
As Cerberus at the Thracian poet's feet. 
Come, let us go, and make thy father blind ; 
For such a sight will blind a father's eye. 



Mar. What means my niece Lavinia by these signs 5 
Tit. Fear her not, Lucius : — Somewhat doth she mean. 

See, Lucius, see, how much she makes of thee ! 

Somewhither would she have thee go with her. 

Ah, boy, Cornelia never with more care 

Read to her sons, than she hath read to thee, 

Sweet poetry, and Tully's Orator. 

Tit. Lucius, what book is that she tosseth so ? 

Boy. Grandsire, 'tis Ovid's Metamorphoses ; 
My mother gave't me. 

Mar. For love of her that's gone, 

Perhaps she cull'd it from among the rest. 

Tit. Soft ! see, how busily she turns the leaves ! 
Help her : — 

What would she find ? — Lavinia, shall I read ? 
This is the tragic tale of Philomel, 
And treats of Tereus's treason. 






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